Walking Dead 1. Natural Immunity

**A/N:** First WD FF. Had a blast writing this and planning it, I just love those zombie darlings so darn much. I hope those of you reading this share my enthusiasm for the undead and all things Walking Dead.

**Full Synopsis:** I will be trying to keep in line with the general ideas of both the show and the comic. This story takes place in an unnamed time after Hershel's farm. The group moves on, seeking refuge in an abandoned prison (comic tie-in). On the other side of things, Charlaine Lyzette (pro. SHAR-LANE LEE-ZETT) is a survivor living in the old Georgia State Penitentiary, but she is not just any ordinary Apocalyptite. Miraculously she has a natural immunity to the unknown contagion that causes zombification. Some hell gets raised. A lot of undead slaying and general zombie goodness. Some romance. Angst like a punch in the face. Dark humour up the wazoo.

Michonne from the comics will be making an apperance, other than her, the characters within will be only from the show or OC's.

**Warnings for whole story: **Rated M for: Language, Violence, Gore. Basically, everything required for a good zombie tale.

Specific warnings, if not the ones mentioned above, will be posted for each individual chapter.

Chapter 1: Natural Immunity

Enjoy ;)

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><p><em>"And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; for in them is filled up the wrath of God… And after that I looked, and, behold, the temple of the tabernacle of the testimony in heaven was opened: And the seven angels came out of the temple, having the seven plagues, clothed in pure and white linen, and having their breasts girded with golden girdles. And one of the four beasts gave unto the seven angels seven golden vials full of the wrath of God, who liveth for ever and ever. And the temple was filled with smoke from the glory of God, and from his power; and <strong><span>no man was able to enter into the temple, till the seven plagues of the seven angels were fulfilled<span>**." (Revelation 15:1-8 KJV)_

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><p><em>Prologue<em>

If there were ever one word in the English language to describe Charlaine Lyzette it would be dauntless; unaccustomed to fear; valiant; indomitable. While most persons lost themselves gradually as the zombie infestation reached its crux, Charlaine found herself - found her true calling amongst the toxic calamity gripping the world by its balls. One who never quite fit in right with the world pre-apocalypse, she truly stumbled upon her niche when the undead masses rose in staggering numbers. As it turns out, the undoubtedly hard life she had led prior to the cataclysmic contagion that all but rendered humans extinct served as the perfect prerequisite for thriving in a fight-or-die new world order. A sharp mind and a strong stomach coupled with finely-tuned survival instincts and a desensitization to the most vicious aspects of violence has allowed her to flourish. She can bash a walker's head in with a baseball bat without blinking; she can kill the abominations that stalk the streets without hesitation or remorse; she can improvise better than McGuyver and rack up a body count higher than Louis Garavito* in a matter of hours if given enough ammunition.

However, beyond her predisposition to surviving living hells, there is one thing that also leaves her incapable of fear, able to be dauntless in these daunting times. And that is supposed natural immunity; an inability to be infected by the most deadly pandemic since the black plague. With every ailment known to man there is a certain given percentage of the population that has a natural immunity. Whether it be through the survival of a far less deadly disease that prepares your immune system for the onslaught of another, such as in the case of milk maids who caught cowpox and then were immune to the ravishing of smallpox, or simply put genetic superiority that protects her, Charlaine Lyzette has little to rationally fear from contact with the undead. Thrice bitten, her heart still beats, her body never once afflicted with fever.

Charlaine Lyzette, a young woman of 24 with light auburn hair and vibrant heterochromatic eyes, was destined to not only survive but also designed to thrive in these historically heinous times.

This story is hers, as well as it is theirs; it is the tale of how the world found its way back to light after being lost in the dark and while this chronicle may in some ways resemble one you have heard before, it is like nothing you have imagined and nor is it like any tale that has yet to be told.

This is the Gospel of Charlaine.

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><p>The now-abandoned Georgia State Penitentiary was once the most secure facility east of the Mississippi, home to the most odious and flagitious criminals deemed too dangerous to be housed with serial murderers and those most devoid of empathy. A series of three fences placed mere feet apart from one another, each two stories high and topped with razor wire, secure the prison's perimeter. Strategically dotted along its barbed borders eight guard towers rise sixty feet from the ground, granting 360 degree aerial views of the surrounding area. To the north a large field where colourful wild flowers bloom fades into the horizon, seemingly stretching to the very ends of the earth as vibrant tides of petals and wheat wash over grassy hills for as far as the eye can see. When the breeze blows in just the right way, the sweet scents of lavender, honeysuckle and sassafras can be smelt from within the prison. Amongst apocalyptic times the simple smell of flowers grants an important sense of normalcy and familiarity to the nine survivors within GSP's sturdy walls. To both the east and the south, tall trees densely cover the land in a thick wash of dark green and brown, not a single patch of grass to be seen between the massive trunks of cypress and oak. Miles beyond the woods to the east the Oconee river flows unseen and to the west the Ocmulgee river lies no more than five-hundred feet beyond the fence.<p>

Walls ten inches thick, made of steel reinforced concrete, render Georgia State impeccably impenetrable against outside forces. A true modern-day fortress, GSP is infallible by design. Virtually impossible to enter and even harder to escape from, its infallibility, its very superiority was ultimately its Achilles heel. In 2008 a series of prisoner riots that warranted a severe lock-down to be initiated claimed the lives of over fifty inmates and all but twelve of Georgia State's two-hundred guards. The technology woven into GSP's controls and regulators was on the cutting-edge of science, and the electronic lock-down sequence that was put into motion that day had not been used by the prison before. After all the careful designing and reinforcing, it was a deadly mishap and atrocious violence of internal origin that lead to its heinous demise. A malfunction voided the override sequence on the main doors and the guards were locked in with inmates for an entire weekend. Often regarded as the bloodiest two days in recent Georgian history, the horrific actions that took place forever scarred the prisons reputation. Unable to recover, Georgia State Penitentiary was eventually closed, left untouched by time in the middle of nowhere, Georgia until the old warden opened the facility to a group of six Apocalyptites he happened to stumble upon.

Sheer dumb luck is the name of survival more times than not. Then again, isn't that how it has always been?

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><p>Georgia in the summertime is about as close to the weather conditions of Hell as you can find on Earth. Scorching heat and oppressive humidity drags you down like a pair of lead weights attached to your ankles, unrelenting for days on end. Even the relief of a rain storm is miniscule and short-lived at best, especially so on days when the thermometer climbs above one-hundred and the sun burns with such intensity that it audibly blisters the very air you breathe, thus scorching your lungs and leaving you praying for hellfire.<p>

Even Charlaine, who grew up in the bayous of Louisiana where ancient superstition runs deep, can barely withstand the weather – if only because she hates the inability to function properly when bogged down by sweat and the beginnings of heat stroke.

Most certainly though, she hates the unbearable heat because it fogs her concentration and fucks with her normally impeccably accurate aim.

Way beyond irritated, a low growling sound emits from Charlaine's throat as she glares down from the guard tower to her untouched, undead target still stumbling around. She quickly loads another round into the bolt-action chamber of her military-issue sniper's rifle, slamming the bolt closed with more force than needed.

Besides her in the tower stands Heath, a tall, bald man with skin as dark as night and eyes as pale blue as the morning sky, holding a pair of high-magnification binoculars by his waist as he watches Charlaine again squint her right eye, an amazingly vibrant shade of aqua blue, and look through her M40's scope with her honey brown left eye; again aiming for one of the twelve zombies that gather around a dead raccoon twenty feet from the prison's main gate.

"Everything all right?" Heath asks, suspiciously eyeing the way she holds the rifle so tight her knuckles have become as white as fresh snow.

"Yeah." Charlaine snaps.

_Obviously,_ everything is not alright.

Heath, apparently not picking up on the fact that it might be a bad idea to do so, decides to offer the tall redhead a tip, "You need to aim a little to your right to offset –" He starts but is quickly, and rude through intention, interrupted by Charlaine who looks away from the scope to instantly glare at Heath with her two-toned eyes widened a great deal.

"I know what I need to do! Hell, I can take out an enemy target from _a half-mile_ away! Do you know how many other people in the world can make a shot like that, _HUH?_" Angrily, she berates the older man as if he just insulted her.

Heath holds up both his hands, taking the smallest step back, "I'm guessing not a whole lot…. Considering," He gestures to the hoard of walkers devouring their road-kill dinner with his binoculars. Charlaine's eyes follow the line of his extended arm to the zombies below. A small amount of tension eases from her visibly clamped jaw, softening her flushed round face.

Not looking at Heath, but rather still focused on the walkers, Charlaine responds with a distant "Yeah. Exactly." She subtly nods along absentmindedly to her words, unaware of the action and lost in her mind.

Even living through the end of the fucking world, every now and then she is still caught off-guard by her new, walker-infested reality. It is just so... so... unbelievable. Physically dispelling her own thoughts with a shake of her head, she takes in a deep breath and then again takes aim, this time slower and with a much calmer aura than before.

_Breath in._

_Exhale. Squeeze._

She squeezes the trigger, firing off a round directly into the skull of some nameless cannibalistic corpse who was unlucky enough to die in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt that made him stick out in a crowd, a shirt that made him unlucky enough to become Charlaine's intended target during practice with Heath. With not much else to do since the apocalypse hit, Heath and Charlaine like to spend their days up in the North guard tower, picking off the dead one-by-one for fun. The sound of the shot echoes off the nearby tree line, ringing loud like church bells. Undoubtedly it will draw more undead to their position, but that just means more targets, which means more to do.

Sound is not a big concern for her or her group. It's not exactly like any of the walkers can get up and over the fences. And even if they do, there are booby traps set all over the compound in case of emergency. If one walker takes the wrong step, _BOOM_, a landmine sends zombie kibble-and-bits twenty feet in the air and thus the problem is eliminated.

In the apocalypse, your contingency plans better have their own contingency plans.

Looking up from her sight, Charlaine smirks as she hands the rifle over to Heath, "Try and beat that shot. I got the mother fucker right between the eyes."

Heath trades his binoculars for her rifle, taking his time loading a round into the chamber while Charlaine scouts the zombie crowd with the binoculars in search of Heath's next target.

"I got it," Charlaine smirks, "Larry King." She snickers.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that. They all kinda look like walking corpses." Heath jokes, unable to keep a stupid grin from creeping up on his elongated face.

With a wry look, Charlaine mockingly laughs at his joke.

"Oh, fuck you, Lou, I thought that was funny." Heath defends, using the nickname (Lou being short for Louisiana, her home state) she had acquired since it was decided her given name was far too girly and therefore unsuitable for a woman such as herself – by Charlaine herself, none-the-less.

"Well, it wasn't." Charlaine says. She brings the binoculars back to her eyes, begrudgingly searching the crowd again for a more _unique_ target. After a few moments marked by a comfortable silence, she again speaks up, "_Texas _Larry King. That good enough for you?" Cheekily, she asks.

In the spirit of good fun, Heath flips her off before using the rifles scope to find the aforementioned _Texas Larry King._ While Heath looks for his named target, Charlaine sweeps over the open field to the North of the prison compound with the binoculars. What she was looking for, Charlaine didn't know, she just felt some sort of compelling urge to check the fields.

And boy, is she glad she did.

Charlaine lowers the binoculars, quickly checking the outer lenses for dust or debris before finding them clear and therefore finding herself utterly surprised beyond words. Just to make sure it isn't some sort of delusion brought on by sleep deprivation or heat stroke, she hits Heath in the upper arm with the back of her palm to grab his attention just as he was lining up his shot.

"Hold on." Heath demands. With her brown and blue eyes unwaveringly focused on the far distance, she again slaps him in the upper arm with the back of her palm, only this time much harder, above and beyond the crucial bruising point.

"_What?_" Heath shouts, lowering the snipers rifle and holding it by his side.

"Out in the field." Charlaine says, sounding absolutely flabbergasted, as she holds the binoculars out for Heath to take with her right hand, pointing to the field with her right.

Heath takes the binoculars from her, quickly pulling them up to his eyes. He looks out at the magnified field bursting with hues of pinks and purple, amazed to find a small group of five people running towards the prison with precise balance; obviously not the sort of people that are commonplace to see, the very people that he and Charlaine were shooting at who are stuck in a nightmarish place between life and death.

There are five people, five _real_ people running towards the prison. Five _living _people, like walkers only with heartbeats and without that nasty '_I want to eat your face'_ complex.

Five survivors, just like them – just like their group of nine residing within Georgia State's fortified walls.

"They must have heard the broadcast... Heath, this is... this is." Charlaine fumbles to find the right words. From within the prison, they have been broadcasting a message on a repetitive loop, alerting anyone within a five-mile radius with a radio that they can provide safe haven for those who require it.

Heath is stunned to silence as he lowers the binoculars. He exchanges a worried look with Charlaine, telepathically coming to the same conclusion.

Those people sure as shit chose the wrong day to seek refuge. They chose the one day when the undead are gathering in swarms just beyond their front gates; they chose the worst possible day to come knocking.

It is Charlaine that voices the concern Heath cannot find the words for, "They're going to run right into the pack of walkers down there."

"What do you want to do?" Heath asks, unknowing and unable to divine an answer by his lonesome.

"Alright," Charlaine breathes, holding a cupped palm over her forehead as she thinks. With her tanned arm at at such an angle the scarred-over bite mark which wraps around the side of her left wrist is visible, slick scar tissue in the form of 32 teeth dully glistening in the scorchingly bright sun, "You get down there with whoever's closest and take out as many as you can. I'll get the fucktards I can from up here and make sure no walkers get close to them."

Heath nods once in agreement then rushes down the ladder, wasting not a single second. Charlaine puts down her bolt-action sniper, leaning it against the small half-wall that wraps around the gaurd tower. She darts into the small office at the top of the tower to collect her M110 SASS, a semi-automatic sniping rifle much more preferred when multiple targets are to be involved. Snapping in a fully loaded magazine, she rests the cumbersome rifle against the wide frame of an open window for steady aim. She breathes slowly and gently to quell the haze of adrenaline fogging her thoughts and twitching her fingers. She finds focus and takes aim for the first walker she spots beginning to deterr from the group by the gate.

_Breath in._

_Exhale. Squeeze._

So many zombies. So little time.

This should be fun of epic porportions.

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><p>*Louis Garavito is a Columbian serial killer who confessed to the murder of 140 young boys (rumoured to have a body count of over 300, though). He is often called "The World's Worst Serial Killer" by the media.<p>

I am extremly interested to know all thoughts on this, so _please..._

**Review**


	2. The Liver Diskus Event

Chapter 2: The Liver Diskus Event

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><p><em>Wild, dark times are rumbling toward us, and the prophet who wishes to write a new apocalypse will have to invent entirely new beasts, and beasts so terrible that the ancient animal symbols of St. John will seem like cooing doves and cupids in comparison.<em>

_- Heinrich Heine, Augsberg Gazette, 1842_

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><p>Heath runs across the courtyard as fast as he can while also being thoughtful of his footing. With the landmines scattered throughout along a grid pattern, he keeps in mind the cleared paths safe to take and is overly cautious not to place so much as one toe out of line. Across the courtyard Marshall, Georgia State's old warden, and his daughter, Millie, sit on the porch of the warden's house, drinking sweet tea while watching a flock of ducks swim down the river. <strong>One shot<strong> from Lou rings loud and clear, booming over the compound with such force that it startles the 31-year-old black man from Birmingham.

"We got a problem!" Heath shouts. Marshall stands from his chair, a little shaky on his arthritic knees. At seventy-one, he could easily pass for a man in his early fifties, the only problem is that his deceiving appearance is purely skin deep. He creaks and pops like any other old man. Not to mention that fifty years of smoking a pipe has left him with a rather severe case of emphysema.

Marshall puffs on his pipe, "What?" His voice is rough like sand paper, calloused and unforgiving. A notoriously hard man with a heart three sizes too small, Marshall is secretly despised by the entire group of survivors, and even more secretly detested by his youngest daughter, Millie.

**Two shots.**

"There's a group coming towards the prison, but the main gate is crawling with walkers." Heath announces, very much out of breath, as he finally comes to a rest in front of the porch steps. **Shots three and four** from Charlaine come in rapid succession, a quick double-tap flawlessly executed.

Millie rises so quickly that the old fashioned wooden chair she was previously sitting is sent teetering back onto two legs before slamming back onto the porch. Seeming somewhat operational solely on autopilot, Millie grabs the .9 mm handgun from the small table between her chair and her fathers.

With a scowl so deeply etched into his face that for a moment it seems Marshall's face will rip in two, he lets out a low scoff, "Survival of the fittest, Heath. If they can't defend themselves from a couple of walkers, then they ain't fit for this place."

"It's not just a _couple_ walkers!" Heath shouts. Millie sheepishly looks at her father, very clearly waiting for him to give her some kind of permission that he never will. With a barely wrinkled hand placed on her arm, Millie sits back down, sadly looking down at the gun resting in her lap.

**Five shots.**

"I don't care if there's a hundred walkers or two. People around here need to learn to fight for themselves. It won't do nobody any good to get hand-outs all their lives." Marshall sneers.

"I COULD USE A LITTLE HELP OVER HERE, IF YOU DON'T MIND!" Charlaine's shouts as loud as she could possibly muster, however, across the courtyard it sounds faint, like the far away squeal of a pot of boiling water.

"You know, last time I checked - this wasn't a dictatorship, so you have no right to be such an ass." Heath snaps at Marshall before darting away – off to the gate, off to save those who Marshall would rather see perish than offer a little of his supposed southern hospitality to.

**Six shots.**

Marshall spits a wad of discoloured spittle over the edge of his wrap-around porch. Tonguing his front teeth, he gently eases himself back down into his chair.

Overly hesitant, Millie slowly turns to face her father, "We're good Christians, pa. We should follow the word of the Lord and help those–"

Marshall raises his hand up over his head, readying to strike his daughter like he has many times before. Instantaneously quieting, Millie instinctively shies away from her father. Millie's long chestnut coloured hair falls in front of her face as she shrinks down in her chair.

"That's what I thought." Smugly, Marshall eases back in his chair and takes a slow puff from his Mershon pipe, "That stupid nigger needs to learn his place 'round here. You hear him cussin' at me like that – like I was one of his homies?" Marshall scoffs at the absurdity of the idea. Millie turns to her father, glaring at the aging man with horn rimmed glasses and a wide brimmed hat whom she loathes in such a way that late at night it makes her question her faith. Marshall looks back at his youngest daughter, silently daring her to say something. But just like always, she doesn't for fear of not only his bare hands but also the wooden paddle he keeps nailed to the wall, right next to the front door for all of creation to see.

Knowing it would be a futile battle at best to say anything about her fathers deep-rooted racism, Millie gets up and walks back into the house, slamming the screen door behind her to the best of her seventeen-year-old ability.

Which is just enough to make Marshall's left eye, cold steely grey, twitch with barely contained anger.

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><p>By the time Heath gets to the gate, Charlaine has taken down seven walkers. Four maggot-sacks remain. While one rather severely decomposed cadaver with a blood-stained wife beater bearing some beer logo tears into the dead raccoon like it's a fucking gourmet all-you-can-eat buffet, the three others have caught whiff of the fresh meet darting through the field and are on the hunt, growling and snapping their jaws at the prospect of a fresh meal. The group of survivors coming towards the prison are entering from the North, the worst possible angle considering how far the tree line juts out. They probably can't even see the infected that limp-run towards them; they're blindly running into what could only be described as an undead ambush. You know, if the dead even have enough brains (pun intended) to perform an ambush.<p>

"ABOUT FUCKING TIME!" Charlaine shouts down from the tower when she sees Heath's tiny form get to the main gate on the northeastern side of the compound.

"You think you can get the lead-" Heath begins, but before he can finish his sentence a shot – sounding more like a dulled firecracker than the heavy boom from Lou's sniping rifle - rings out and the walker that had been at the front of the pack falls to the ground; dead.

This time for good, too.

Two more shots not from Charlaine's gun echo around the compound in rapid succession, distanced sound waves bouncing off of so many surfaces that it becomes even more diluted. Almost peaceful, even.

"That wasn't me." Charlaine says breathily to herself as she peers beyond her rifle and out into the field where a small cloud of gun smoke hangs suspended in the humid air around the distant group. Even though Heath did not hear Louisiana, for there is no possible way he could of at such a distance, he looks up to Charlaine in the tower at the very precise moment she looks down at him. Telepathic words are exchanged, all filled with surprise and praise for the group that has to be at least a hundred and fifty feet from the zombies at this point: not an easy shot to be accurate with. For one to be able to get a clean headshot from that distance means that beyond a semi-reasonable doubt, someone of the five has weapons training. It is skills such as that which become the most coveted when the world ends. Remember: nothing is ever _safe,_ only _safer.*_

Heath and Charlaine knew each other long before the world came crashing to its knees and that enables them to have the sort of faux-paranormal powers that they do. When Louisiana's Marine company was deployed to Iraq in late 2007, Heath was her Navy Corpsman – her field medic. The two forged an unbreakable bound under the intense pressure of undeclared war under the guise of keeping peace. It is a bond that neither quite understands but each wholly respects and treasures.

"Tell Michonne to open the gates!" Heath calls up to Lou.

Caught in the middle of reaching for the bulky walkie-talkie sitting on the cluttered desk in the office, Charlaine shouts down a quick, "Already on it." Then puts a call to Michonne over in the eastern most tower, quickly telling the katana-wielding woman to part the electronic gates.

On the porch of the warden's house, within the fence but completly seperate from the prison, still sipping his chilled sweet tea and smoking his pipe, Marshall mutters to himself a solemn, "Damn."

The crotchety old man with wire-thin blonde hair hates having more mouths to feed almost as much as he hates democrats and pinko hippie faggots. Hence why he has twice disconnected the radio transmitter within the prison.

Yet somehow, it never remains down for more than a day – though he has his suspicions that his youngest, and now only, daughter has worked up the nerve to correct the damage he does.

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><p>Charlaine and Heath work together to clear away the pile of bloody, permanently dead corpses from the main gate, creating a narrow dead-free pathway for the quickly approaching survivors. The walkers are light-weight in their dismembered and decomposed state, easily moved out of the way just as if they were trash bags waiting curbside for pick-up.<p>

It works like a rhythmic machine with Charlaine wrapping her arms up to the elbow under the corpses armpits while Heath grabs their feet. Working together they swing the dead bodies back and forth until they build up enough momentum and then they fling the putrid beings off into a pile that quickly stacks high.

"I'm thinking s'mores tonight." Heath says as he wipes his dirty hands down the front of his khaki-covered thighs.

"We don't have any chocolate." Charlaine says.

"But Dianne hoards the stuff." Heath says, pointedly.

Charlaine rolls her two-toned eyes, "_We're," _with a back-and-forth wiggling of her index finger in the space between them, she gestures to herself and Heath, "not supposed to know that. "

She crouches down, wedging her bare arms under the next walker to be moved as Heath does the same to what is left of its feet – nothing more than two half-eaten stubs of torn flesh with the tattered remains of sneakers cupping a copious amount of coagulated brackish goo around the heels.

"Screw her. We've got to burn these bodies and I don't want to let a fire go to waste. Okay, one, two, _three._" They lift on the count of three, easily hoisting up the body.

"You don't think that's a little unsanitary?" Charlaine's words lack disgust, rather she sounds tired; grown bored with the macabre as it becomes her daily routine.

"Naw, fire kills everything."

"You sure about that? I've seen walkers running around, _on fire. _They seemed pretty _not-dead_ to me."

As the body begins to swing faster and with more momentum, Heath hears a faint ripping noise, but before he can react, the corpse rips clear in two – spilling innards and repugnant goo all over the dirt path that serves as an entrance route. Louisiana is left holding on to the top half and Heath the bottom, a pile of rotten intestines and excrement swimming in a pool of blood gathering between.

Heath gags from the smell, having to drop the bisected pair of legs in order to vomit in peace while Lou looks on, her brow scrunched up and her lips pulled into a frown, "I never knew there was so much… _crap_ inside of someone." She comments.

Crap, indeed. In addition to everything that came spilling out from inside the walker, a large amount of fecal matter splattered on the dirt road. Perhaps the worst part of that is the fact that the shit smell doesn't even register. Instead, all that can be smelt is rot and decay, a disturbing smell greatly magnified by the humidity and heat.

With her arms still hooked under the dismembered torso's underarms, Charlaine perks up a little – causing the torso to sway and even more putrefied bodily fluids to spill onto the dirt road, "I bet he didn't have enough fiber in his diet. All flesh and no bran does not a regular colon make." She chuckles to herself, finding the joke immensely funny.

However, her sort of macabre humour only makes Heath's stomach church worse.

Gagging again from her unneeded, disgusting commentary, Heath doubles over and breathes in deep in a desperate attempt to not regurgitate any more of his lunch. But it's rather hard considering the breeze has picked up and he had the unfortuante foresight to step down-wind. As the smell grows in correlating intensity to the breeze, he again hurls.

"That. Was. Not. _Funny!_" Heath says when he is finally able to talk, though doing so hurts his throat.

Charlaine shrugs with one shoulder, letting out the tiniest of murmurs of agreement before hurling the torso into the nearby pile of corpses. As the torso flies through the air, its liver comes loose and shoots off in the other direction like a frisbee, flinging blood and curious chunky bits every which way as it spins.

Louisiana tries to be funny, to crack jokes like Heath does, but more times than not her particular brand of humour proves to disturb more than it inspires laughter.

"Hello?" A dubious greeting from a slightly wavering male voice steals the attention of both Heath and Louisiana who had previously had their backs turned to the field.

Louisiana turns around to greet five people, four men and one blonde woman, each looking more than slightly emaciated and sun burnt as if they had been traveling for days in the sweltering heat.

The baby face of a slender Asian man bears a green tint as he stares wide-eyed at the carnage left behind from the bisected walker, while the very same scene causes a tall man wearing a red plaid shirt, sans sleeves, who holds a crossbow to cock his head to the side, intrigued by the way a body could just tear in half like that. The blonde female holds the back of her palm over her nose and mouth, turning her torso to the side and thus putting the vile sight beyond her peripherals. A whispered "that's even grosser the second time around." can be faintly heard from her over the leaves that rustle in the gathering breeze. Neither of the two men who have unknowingly placed themselves two paces in front of the others look at the spilt carnage. Instead, a slim brown-haired fella in a tan uniform and a stalky man with black stubble over his head, both holding rifles, look straight ahead at Heath and Louisiana.

"Nice to meet ya'll, I'm Heath." Heath waves, still feeling unbearably queasy. The Asian boy gives him a subtle nod, empathizing with his pain.

Louisiana puts on a friendly, and decidedly fake smile, "And I'm Louisiana. How do you do?" she asks politely. The end of the world should not mean the end of manners; just because civilization dies out does not also mean civility should follow suit.

Life is what you make of it and all that other bullshit…

Being a lefty, Charlaine sticks out her left hand to shake whoever first accepts it, a friendly, harmless gesture by itself. Yet when she sticks out her hand, and therefore also sticks out her wrist with a bite-mark plain-as-day, it is as if she were instead offering them a basket full of poisonous apples.

"Damn! She's been bit!" The man with the sleeveless button-up shirt on exclaims.

The group collectively flinches away, putting a greater distance between themselves as a whole and the tall redheaded woman.

"It ain't nothin' to worry about." Lou says with a dismissive wave.

"The hell do you mean _it ain't nothin' to worry about?_" Crossbow man asks, a deep southern drawl blatant in his words – from somewhere in the backwoods, somewhere familiar to Louisiana. For as much as Yankees like to think there is only one southern accent, there most certainly is not. Each region has its own distinct accent. For example, Heath's Birmingham, Alabama accent is far different from Charlaine's Cajun accent - even though she tries to speak articulately and downplay her roots, there is no amount of willpower strong enough to completly erase the deeply engrained Cajun pronunciations from her pierced tongue.

Heath decides to explain their unique situation, since the extent of Charlaine's explanation goes about as far as _because I said so,_ "See, it's just a scar," Heath grabs Lou's wrist gently, holding up so that the relatively new scar, still slightly pink, is more visible in the sunlight, "She's immune – _can't_ get infected."

"Holy shit." The blonde woman exclaims in quiet surprise.

Charlaine takes back her wrist, exchanging a look with Heath that clearly expresses she is none-too-pleased with how he just waved around the very painful physical reminder of the first time she was bit as if it were nothing.

"That's impossible." The stalky black-haired man affirms with a shake of his head, so absolutely sure of something he knows little about. Perhaps it is that sort of ignorance that strikes such a passionate chord with Lou, or maybe it is the lack of gratitude for having saved their collective asses. But whatever it is, it sure puts a fire in her soul.

"Well that obviously ain't the case. I'm breathin', aren't I? Besides, you really think a dirty stinkin' walker would be able to take out all these motherfuckers from sixty feet in the air?," she waves a hand at the nearby pile of corpses, "No, I didn't think so. I've been _bitten,_" she glares at crossbow redneck in silent reprimand for his slaughtering of grammatical correctness "but I'm alive. If you got an issue with that, I suggest you go back to wherever the hell you came from." Unfairly angry with the new arrivals, to the point where her cheeks have become rosy, a fuming Louisiana stalks away after delivering her spiteful sermon – the faint mutterings of cuss words left in her wake like a trail of bread crumbs.

"What the hell is her problem?" Daryl Dixon, the muscular brunette with the crossbow, asks Heath.

Officially having regained his composure, Heath lets out a singular, scoffing laugh, "She's_… complicated_. Best damn sniper I've ever seen and one hell of a Marine, but she could definitely use some improvement when it comes to dealing with people." He takes a small pause, quickly sensing from the palpable hesitation hovering around, caught in the humid air, that he is beginning to alienate the newcomers, "But she's good to have around and believe it or not, she actually grows on you. So, I take it ya'll heard our broadcast." Heath says, entirely interested in changing the subject.

The man in the tan sheriff's uniform, Rick, steps closer to Heath, "We did. And we'd be mighty thankful if-"

Heath holds up a flattened palm, "Say no more, say no more. Me casa es su casa!" Heath finishes with a wide smile, showing off his perfectly white and perfectly straightened teeth – the benefits of having running water and toothpaste apparent. Partially being so welcoming is like a big _fuck-you_ to Marshall, Heath silently proving himself the better man, if only to himself.

An upbeat man, Heath clamps one of his large hands over the other man's shoulder, "Lady and Gentlemen, may I formally welcome you to Château du Georgia State!" with his free arm, he grandly gestures to the prison in front of them as if it were a gold gilded castle.

Which, with all things considered, Georgia State Penitentiary really may as well be a glittering castle just beyond St. Peter's gates.

"Just be sure to follow my exact steps – landmines and all." Heath says, raising a lone index finger.

"_What_?" The young Asian asks, his mouth slightly agape.

* * *

><p>Andrea shakes her head passionately, "No. I just don't like it." She speaks in a hushed shout, extremely adverse to the idea of staying at the prison after having met Heath and Louisiana. Something about them doesn't feel right, and if Andrea has learned anything in the past few months, it has been to follow her gut instinct.<p>

"If you have any better idea, I'd like to hear it." Thumbs hooked behind his belt as he leans back onto his heels, Rick patiently waits for Andrea to suggest something better. However, the blonde cannot even think of a single alternative, let alone something better, so she just purses her lips shut and crosses her arms under her chest, unhappy and glad to show it.

"Look at it this way, it ain't like they're keeping a bunch of walkers in a barn." Daryl offers lightly, trying his best to offer Andrea solace. She glares at him, her unhappiness even more obvious. With a faint roll of his eyes and an even fainter shaking of his head, Daryl straps his crossbow over his back and pays her no more mind.

Rick rubs a soothing palm over his sweat-sticky face, "Alright, look, Shane and I will go back and get the others before nightfall, bring 'em here. Let's at least give it a couple of days before we go jumping to conclusions. I'm sure they're all very nice people in there." He takes in a deep, calming breath, because in reality, he is not too fond of that young woman or the man, either – in a way that is inexplicable, a way that is purely instinctual. He quite simply just does not feel completely at ease. But with a complete lack of alternative routes, aside from a risky trek a hundred miles up the interstate, what choice does he really have? Yes, the people here may be a little weird, but this place – this prison offers something completely unique:

Safety.

Glenn, who had previously been chewing on his thumbnail looks at Rick with the spark of a thought clear as day in his dark eyes.

"You know, I read an article in a magazine or something a few years ago about an Ebola outbreak in Africa. There were these doctors who were able to immunize some people with a blood transfusion from someone who had gotten sick but survived. Something like that _could_ work, right?" Glenn asks, unsure of his own words. Whether or not any of them even admitted it to themselves, the same exact question had been on the minds of Daryl, Rick, Shane and Andrea.

"Ya'll comin' or what?" Heath calls from the main gate, patiently waiting for them to catch up.

The group of five share meaningful looks with one another over a pregnant silence, each of them individually finding that even the possibility of a vaccination against the unknown disease ravishing the Earth is enough to override their unease.

As Rick takes a step forward, the words whispered to him by Dr. Jenner on that fateful day at the CDC come to the front of his mind and refuse to go away.

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><p>*Paraphrased from <em>The Zombie Survival Guide<em> by Max Brooks.

Please review, they all mean the world to me even if it is a one-worded comment. :)


	3. Hell on Earth and The Colour Pink

Chapter 3: Hell On Earth and The Colour Pink

**Thank you to those of you who review and continue to read. You're all awesome.**

**A/N:** I was expecting to have introduced the rest of Rick's group by now, but this chapter gets out of the way the last bit of background information I feel is necessary, so I hope the story doesn't feel like its dragging too much. Next chapter _all_ the others will be integrated and things should start to pick up from there. Also, I made an error on my quote at the beginning of Chapter 2, which I have now corrected.

Enjoy! ;)

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><p><em>"…So when the last and dreadful hour<em>

_This crumbling pageant shall devour,_

_The trumpet shall be heard on high,_

_The dead shall live, the living die,_

_And music shall untune the sky."_

_-John Dryden, The Major Works_

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><p><em>Then...<em>

Darkness long ago befell upon the crumbling city of Tallahassee but as the entire metropolitan area becomes a singular united inferno as the infected feed and chaos flourishes, an eerie orange glow that fades and grows as the fires flicker illuminates the sky. With the entire city set ablaze, the stars are erased, the moon rendered an obscured blip by towering columns of blackened smoke which seep into the very night itself – creating spots of abysmal darkness. The noxious stench of burning diesel fuel and charred flesh fills the stagnant warm air. With nowhere to go as thick black smoke clogs the atmosphere, the stench only magnifies in intensity – seeping in through every little crack, infecting the very air itself with the stench of death and destruction. Sirens blare, endlessly repeating their high-pitched wailing – an abandoned police cruiser with a broken windshield and copious amounts of drying blood obscuring the shield painted on the door. Screams come from all angles, screams of agony and screams of horror along with the desperate screaming pleas for help that are futile and pathetically hopeful at best – screams that will never be answered for the entire world has abandoned the very hope for salvation the screamers are longing for. Breaking glass as building erupt into massive balls of fire, spewing forth sharp shards that glitter in the orange glow. The crackling sound of burning material, the _whooshing_ of the raging inferno, is the quietest thing amongst the cacophonous symphony booming, always nearing a crescendo but never quieting, eternally becoming louder and louder to the point where deafness would be a reprieve.

Where life ends and death begins is obscured with no clear line of what is and what is not. The living die and then when dead, they live again - the laws of the universe that were once so rigid have become flaccid, non-existant. Hell on Earth envisioned, witnessed; the apocalypse apparent.

A singular armoured Humvee crawls down the street, maneuvering around cars and driving over limp bodies on the ground like speed bumps. From the tall buildings lining the street, people still barley clutching onto life hurl themselves down onto the street, whether they are intentionally ending their lives or springing for the military Humvee in a thoughtless last bid for salvation unknown. They fall to the ground and splatter like insects under a newspaper, nearly flattened with brain matter and blood shooting out, painting the pavement. With her face pressed against the small window made of bullet proof glass, Charlaine watches Hell pass by, unable or unwilling to verbalize the atrocities once reserved for nightmares and movies.

The living dead swarm in hoards of massive numbers, storming down the streets every which way she looks like an invading army of cadavers united by their cannibalistic desires - the pounding of their shuffling feet silent in march, silent among the blaring noise of destruction.

Louisiana is startled as a comforting hand wraps around her shoulder but relieved when she glances down out of the corner of her eyes, finding that it is only Heath's massive dark hand which wrinkles her fatigues as he refuses to let go. When she looks up to Heath's chiseled face, a face that could have landed him on the cover of GQ in another life, she realizes with overwhelming clarity that he is not gripping tight her shoulder for her comfort, but rather he holds onto her for his own comfort. He probably would not admit it, even under torture, but Charlaine can tell that her friend is afraid - its solely in the way his blue eyes remain rigid, unblinking with a tense crinkling around his eyelids.

She wraps her own hand around his and gives him a small squeeze just to reinforce the comforting human connection, marveling at how small and pale her hand seems resting over his that seems the impossibly large hand of a giant.

They roll over a body, causing the Humvee's independent suspension to tilt the cabin – Heath's hand digging into her shoulder as he tries to not think about the speed bumps scattering the road as people.

First Lieutenant Kevin, a baby-faced giant of six feet and four inches who is built sturdy and muscular as a tank, drives the armored Humvee down Monroe Street, his calloused hands wrapped around the steering wheel a stark white as his brown eyes stare beyond the window to the road, deeply glazed over like glass in refusal to completely recognize the horror before them. Next to Kevin sits David, the youngest of their battalion at 19-years-old, a blonde haired boy from northern Alabama. David is the epitome of a good 'ol boy, a doe-eyed boy who is highly driven by an internal call of duty. Once the captain of his high school's football team, he turned down a promising career in college football and undoubtedly the NFL because he felt it was his moral obligation and sole responsibility as a capable man to join the Marines the day he graduated. He keeps a tight hold on a fully-automatic assault rifle, ready to shoot in a seconds' notice, with his chin bowed to his chest in silent prayer.

The four of them are all that remains of their once great unit, depleted and deprived but somehow remaining strong as ever in their united defiance against succuming to the world's woes.

They slowly make their way down the street, cautiously traversing the main street of Hell itself all in the name of rescuing their Lieutenant Colonel's daughter – his last request before he succumbed to the fever… his last request before Charlaine put a bullet through his head.

"How far away are we?" Charlaine asks.

"Two minutes out." Kevin says, robotically. As they drive by a corner market completely engulfed by flames, the city-wide glow breeches the darkened auto and catches on the silver double bars pinned to her lapel in such a way that she is again startled. Achieving the rank of Captain at twenty-four was not easy but it was earned and even during the Apocalypse her heart swells with pride for a brief moment before she realizes that with the world all but null, her rank is absolutely meaningless.

The rest of the ride is filled with the blaring noises from outside and the calm clicking of weapons being checked and loaded inside the Humvee. No one dares speak, not even a squeak. Each has seen their share of death, seen humanity at its absolute worst, but in the past week the things they have seen make the taste of words sour, too heavy and unsavory on their tongues.

As the Humvee rolls up to the elementary school where Col. Jack's daughter has hidden herself, David leads them in a group prayer for safety and swiftness. Praying to a God she doesn't believe in, Charlaine can only think of one thing the entire time David begs a higher being for protection.

_Where is God in all of this? _

Just like the world has abandoned hope while only a stupid few cling to the prospect of salvation, apparently God has also abandoned the world and all its inhabitants. But just who said '_fuck it'_ first? Us or him?

The four pour out from the Humvee in no more than ten seconds, weapons raised and senses heightened as adrenaline takes control of their bodies, pulling them along like a puppet master. Hollywood will have you believe that when the adrenaline starts coursing through your veins, time slows down - but that is the exact opposite of the truth. Time speeds up and things happen in a matter of milliseconds - you solely react the instant something happens, without so much as a single thought.

A narrow band of dead have followed the Humvee, grasping for the loud vehicle and its occupants with broken, bloodied finger - snapping their drooling jaws, thrashing around their bloated tongues that spill from their blackened mouths. Kevin and Charlaine head the front, while Heath and David walk backwards, every angle covered – each of the four firing away at the quickly growing crowd of walkers closing in on the elementary school. The gunfire does not halt for a single second.

This is not to be an easy task. The school that set up as an emergency shelter was declared overrun a day ago – but Col. Jack's daughter, Emily, is as smart as her father was and has locked herself on the roof for protection, calling out for her father with the walkie-talkie he had given her when she and her mother came to the school. Smart on her part, but unfortunately, that means Charlaine's unit now has to work its way through three floors of walker infested space and then back down again.

Organized and operating as a single being of shared mind, the Marine unit of four storms the elementary school and shows Hell how things are done as they efficiently wipe the living dead from their path to the roof. They go through clip after clip of ammunition, discarding the used empty cartridges on the floor for favour of time and only ever reloading one-at-a-time.

Bodies pile up all around them as they swiftly maneuver through the darkened building, not a single running corpse escaping from their crosshairs. An efficient killing machine, the four make it through the building in three minutes flat without incident.

As Kevin bangs against the roof door for Emily to open it, Charlaine glances over at David – pondering her religious belief system as his prayer has apparently shielded them from harm despite the massive crowd of zombies they had to shoot their way through.

The heavy steel door painted an ungodly green colour that reminds Charlaine of the vomit scene from the Exorcist squeaks open. There, in the doorway – half obscured by shadows and half ignited by the inferno that is Tallahasse, Emily looks directly up into the two-tone eyes of Charlaine. The little girl's eyes are wide with long black eyelashes and a dark, dark brown – just like her fathers in the most haunting of ways that sends a chill up Lou's spine.

At a very apparent nine years old, the girl orphaned by the apocalypse is a four-foot twig with wild jet-black hair sticking to her sweaty face like a giant spider is resting atop her skull.

"Where's my Dad?" Emily directly asks of Charlaine, her high-pitched voice squeaking with fright.

Charlaine doesn't have the heart to tell the young girl who watched her mother get devoured that her father is also dead, "He's back at the base waiting for you." Charlaine lies effortlessly.

Emily continues to stare at her with brown eyes paralyzed wide by debilitating fear, making her look like a sickly doll – making Charlaine fear that her lie is apparent.

"C'mon, we need to go!" Kevin says forcibly. Emily does not turn and look at him, but rather she rushes through the door and wraps her body around Charlaine's lower half, her head barley coming up to Charlaine's navel.

Caught off-guard by the innocent action of the child, Charlaine cautiously sooths a hand over Emily's head, hoping that it brings her some sort of relief from the atrocious.

"C'mon!" Kevin says again, beginning to retreat back down the stairs.

"Stay behind me." Charlaine says, waving an authoritative finger in the heart-shaped face of Emily. She nods, releasing Charlaine from her hold save for a tiny hand she keeps wrapped around her belt.

They begin their swift descent down the stairs, easily avoiding the mutilated and partially devoured corpses haphazardly strewn across the steps – some still reaching up and out as if retaining their quest for flesh even after their second death has rendered them limp.

When their pace quickens and Charlaine feels a tugging on her belt that tells her they are moving far too fast for such a young child to keep pace, she slings her assault rifle over her shoulder and scoops Emily up in her arms, holding her close to her chest and whispering gentle demands not to look at the piles of cadavers surrounding them. Kevin, David and Heath lead while Charlaine, slightly lagged as she cradles eighty pounds, follows from behind. Gunfire bursts block out the sounds of the apocalypse coming in through broken windows, echoing throughout the school and ringing aloud in their ears long after the bombardment of bullets quiets.

Bursting through the wide-open front doors of the school, the team freezes on the steps as they bear witness to a collection of walkers so vast it seems a swelling sea of corpses rises like a tidal wave in front of them, about to crash upon their position.

Their Humvee is nearly engulfed by the dead, rocking back and forth like a ship caught in a storm as the living dead bump into it.

Charlaine lowers Emily to the floor, needing the use of her hands to lay down gunfire as her three fellow Marines do. Picking up her gun with one hand, she pushes Emily behind her with the other – placing her small body directly behind her, using her own body as a shield for the young girl. It is an action that is purely instinctual, something Louisiana had no prior thought about doing. Even though she was never one who particularly cared for children, this sudden influx of maternal care that roots itself deep into her mind does not even register to Charlaine. The one thing that does blatantly hiccup her mental process, however, is the quiet pleading from Emily that echoes in her mind like the bursting gunfire did only moments ago.

"I don't want to die." Emily cries, so heartbreakingly sorrowful that Charlaine catches herself off guard with her own reply.

"I will never let anything happen to you." She says, meaning ever single word with all the sincerity she has to offer.

"Promise?" Emily cries, having to shout over the glorious blaze of automatic rifle firing that rains bullets upon the rising sea of dead.

"I promise."

The dead are rising faster than they can shoot – so staggering in quantity that for a moment Charlaine believes this is the end.

In all her twenty-four years of life, never once has Charlaine broken a promise and God himself be damned to this Hellish reality if she's going to start now.

She puts her rifle on the ground and rips the satchel attached to her back free, tearing into the pack with lightning speed, thus quickly brandishing four grenades that represent the four remaining hand-held explosives in her units collective possession.

She twists her torso, bending down slightly so she is more eye level with Emily, "Stay here." She begins to run away but stops mid-step. What it is that Charlaine plans on doing is the very epitome of reckless, a suicide objective if ever she has thought of one.

Pulling the Captains pin from her lapel, she places it in the small palm of Emily, "Hold onto this for me."

Louisiana does not have an answer for herself as to why she passes down the most treasured object in her possession, she just does.

Silently, Emily closes her hand, encapsulating Charlaine's pin and watches, partially mystified but mostly still plagued by fright, as Charlaine runs directly for the army of walkers.

"CHARLAINE!" David calls after her, trying to get her to stop.

"CEASE FIRE!" In unison with David, Kevin orders – trying to prevent his reckless comrade from being shot by friendly fire.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Heath shouts. Emily tugs on David's pant leg, opening her palm to show him the pin - instantly causing the blood to drain from his face as he realizes Lou is not planning on coming back.

Charlaine pulls the pins from the grenades as she runs, discarding the circular metal pins by throwing them over her shoulder. She hurls the grenades forth into the crowd, but sadly not fast enough to prevent three walkers from getting the jump on her. They just came from nowhere – she never even saw them until she feels a horrible burning pain in her wrist that radiates all the way down her spine.

Crying out in pain as a jaw digs into her wrist, she agonizingly wrenches her arm free while fighting off another walker – a bloody police officer with a bullet hole torn through one fleshy cheek and half his lower jaw dangling by a single ligament – by kicking him so hard in the knee she hears the sturdy joint snap just before his leg bends backwards and he tumbles to the ground. A bullet whizzes past her ear and takes out the walker that had bitten her wrist – blowing out the back of his skull, splattering bone and brain into the smokey atmosphere. As the fallen police officer gums around her boot clad foot, she is able to get the KA-BAR knife attached to her belt free. She flips the knife around in her hand, gaining a better hold on it just as the third walker, a young boy no older than Emily, that had ambushed her bites into her thigh, sharp adolescent canines easily tearing through her fatigues - piercing her flesh, but unable to tear out the chunk like you would a bite from an apple.

Gritting her teeth against the immense pain that bombards her nervous system, Charlaine brings the knife down with as much force as she can, driving the massive blade directly through the crown of the young boys skull just as all four grenades explode simultaneously. So close to the explosion, she is thrown down onto her back, her head crashing against the pavement with a dull crack of bone when the pressure wave expands out. Just before a warm blackness envelops her consciousness, soothing enough to quell the excruciating pain in her wrist and thigh, she hears the far away cry of a girl over the apocalyptic symphony of the burning city. And as she begins to fade away, she prays to a God she doesn't believe in, she prays even though she isn't quite sure how to do so silently, she prays to live.

She prays to be allowed to protect Emily.

She prays for this to not be the end.

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><p><em>Now...<em>

Storming in through the massive front doors of the prison, still fuming after verbally exploding on the newcomers, Charlaine begins to let loose the fury contained within – shouting off rhetorical insults to no one at all. However, she is instantly silenced as her brown and blue eyes notice the small figure sitting in the corner of the foyer.

Wearing a sleeveless dress yellow as the sun, black-haired Emily sits cross-legged in the corner with a colouring book in front of her and a pack of Crayola crayons spread out on the floor beside her - a silver double-barred pin stuck in the cloth of her yellow dress just above and to the left of where her heart is. Emily looks over at Charlaine with her wide, doll-esque brown eyes that see straight through a persons skin and into their very soul, boring into Louisiana's inner person with not hatred or fear, but rather with devotion.

Caught in the gaze of those large brown eyes, Charlaine feels a deep calm wash over her - a silent reminder bursts through her blinding rage that came from nowhere, a reminder that even in the apocalypse some innocence remains untouched by the evil which prevails just beyond the prison gates.

Charlaine sighs, feeling remorseful about her anger, but more importantly feeling remorseful that she just said such vicious words in the presence of Emily - something she tries not to do.

"Sorry." Charlaine says sincerely, apologizing for violating Emily's ears with such nasty words that a child should not know.

Emily smiles the most beautiful smile Charlaine has ever seen, "You owe me _a lot_ of M&Ms." For every time Charlaine is caught cussing by Emily, she owes her M&M's – varying in quantity that correlates to how 'bad' the particular word is. One for ass. Three for shit. Five for fuck.

Emily's smile is perpetually contagious and Charlaine quickly becomes infected. Bearing her own toothy grin, "A whole bag?" she asks.

Emily shakes her head adamantly, "Two." She holds up two fingers to visualize her point.

Charlaine rolls her eyes with faux-irritation, "_Fine._ Two it is."

She then walks over to the young girl and sits on the cold linoleum floor with her, wrapping a protective and loving arm around Emily's small shoulders. After placing a small kiss on the top of Emily's head, Charlaine rests her chin there and peers down to watch Emily colour in a picture of Cinderella – giving the classic Disney princess bright pink hair and a dress to match.

Wholly content with her life in this instant, Charlaine completely forgets why she was even mad to begin with – such is the effect being with Emily normally has on her. There is something inexplicable about the young child that actually changes Lou, and changes her for the better. Around the girl, Lou strives to be better, to be someone Emily can love and be proud of. All she can guess is that this is what it must feel like to be a parent.

Considering that prior to saving her late Colonel's daughter she didn't even like children, Charlaine could never have imagined in her wildest dreams pre-apocalypse that she would find herself loving a little girl as much as she does; she never could have imagined what it truly means to be a parent – to have unconditional love for someone that is reciprocated so effortlessly.

Yet here she sits, in the massive entry room of a super-max prison, with her arms wrapped around Emily, thinking _Damn. My daughter really loves the colour pink._

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><p>When Heath and the newcomers come in through the front doors, Charlaine instantly stands up – an apology to the group already worked through in her mind. Greatly calmed down, she realizes how unwarranted her verbal assault was and more importantly, she realizes that it made her look like a huge ass. She may have immense trouble getting along with people, always has, but given the conditions of Earth, she has been trying to work on her interpersonal skills. After all, in a world where you're outnumbered a hundred-to-one by the dead, you can't really afford to have enemies.<p>

"New people!" Emily exclaims, bursting with an excited gap-toothed grin. A social butterfly, Emily is always ecstatic whenever someone new shows up at the prison.

"Hey, Em, why don't you go find Dianne and see if she'll give you an advance on those M&M's I owe you." Charlaine suggests, preferring to talk to the newcomers without Emily present.

Emily nods, picking up on the fact that what Charlaine is saying is more of a direct request instead of a suggestion like her tone misled. After picking up her colouring book and crayons, she waves goodbye to the group in the entry room and then takes off running down the hall in search of Dianne. Charlaine follows Emily with her eyes, watching until she takes a corner and disappears from sight before switching her attention to the group as a whole.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted out there, I made a huge ass out of myself. I think the heat was just getting to me and you," she looks directly at Shane, "just had the misfortune of catching me at a really bad time. I mean you no bad will and I hope ya'll will forgive me for acting the way I did." The sincerity with which she speaks is not lost on the group.

Shane's eyes flicker to the floor for a moment barely long enough to count, "That's all right. I think we can all understand that fuses tend to run a little short in this heat." He accepts the apology but something in his voice is lacking, something that Charlaine can't quite put her finger on because while it sounded sincere, it just wasn't all there.

"Was that your daughter?" Rick asks, partially curious because of how young Louisiana is – true, if she was Emily's biological mother that would mean she gave birth at the very young age of fifteen.

For the sake of ease, Charlaine considers saying yes but ultimately decides against it, "No, her Dad was in our unit and after he died, I just kinda… fell in love with her." Lou finishes with this soft smile on her round face, this Mona Lisa sort of smile that brightens her entire apperance.

"I've got a son myself, back at the camp with my wife. His name's Carl." Rick says, wearing his own small smile. Lou recieves confirmation that the swelling pride that makes her smile whenever she thinks of Emily is a "parent thing".

"There's more of you?" She inquires, surprised because never has she come across a large group of other survivors before – it has always just been a few here and a few there, small groups of three or four - or even less, like Michonne who came to the prison all by her lonesome... well, if you don't count the dead as people, that is.

Shane nods, "Yeah, we got five more waiting for us about four miles north of here - Rick and I are gearin' up to go get them."

Louisiana is quiet for a second, thinking. "I can give you boys a ride if you like." She offers, extending a friendly hand in part to make reparations.

Rick opens his mouth, about to say something that Lou has the foresight to know as a polite 'no', so she decides to interject another key piece of information.

"We got an armored Humvee parked out back that's fun as shit to ride in, not to mention its completely walker proof. It's the best way to travel through these parts since the walkers started leavin' the cities." Walkers never used to be much of a concern this far in the wood, but during the past month while out hunting in the woods or traveling to the nearest town twenty miles away for supplies, it is commonplace to run into at least a few walkers. It has no longer become a question of _if _you're going to run into a walker, but a question of _when._ Closer and closer they migrate towards the isolated prison as the food supply begins to dwindle.

Never has Louisiana met someone, pre or post apocalypse, who passes on the opportunity to ride in a tricked-out Humvee with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the roof and it seems today is not the day that is going to change, for after Rick and Shane share a brief look in which they seem to hold the exact same sort of telepathic conversation Lou and Heath do, "That'd be greatly appreciated." says Rick.

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><p>Please review<p> 


	4. General Humvee

Chapter 3: General Humvee

Enjoy ;)

**Extra Warnings for Chapter 3: ** Drug use.

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><p><em>When life becomes hell, you must try to find heaven in the everyday or else you'll go mad with indignation.<em>

_-Author Unknown_

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><p>A wide passageway runs down the length of Georgia State while much like branches sprouting from a tree, narrow and windowless hallways sprout off in every direction. Just confusing enough to make you scratch your head and wonder whether or not that door looks familiar, darkened corridors spread with no sense of logic or direction. For any given place you wish to end up inside GSP, there are nearly endless different ways in which to go. Even simply going from the entrance to the kitchen, there are twenty-one different ways to do so. There are no markings, no room numbers, no directories - just a seemingly random 6-didgit serial number painted above each door, of which none are barred. Every door inside is a thick slab of steel painted warm ivory, of your peeling and dingy variety, with a thin sliver of a window cut down the center. Not a single bar, not a single window wider than five-inches – except for in the main hallway. While every other square foot of Georgia State is dismally dark, the main hallway is bright as there is no wall above six feet – just thick glass that stretches up to the ceiling.<p>

None of the windows are open yet the space does not feel like a sweat box. Stepping into the entrance room, you are greeted by a rush of graciously glacial-feeling chilled air. A faint hum flows throughout, a subtle movement in the air – a direction with which it flows; It's air-conditioning at its finest.

Standing under an air vent, thoroughly enjoying the missed luxury, Daryl thinks a two-syllabled _damn_ to himself as he holds his arms above his head, cooling his arm pits.

Stretching all the way down the wall, charcoal outlines affixed with a shiny clear varnish depict an intricate landscape, realistically drawn so that if it were not for the lack of colour it would seem there was no wall there at all, but rather just one giant window overlooking a beautiful vista of lush hills and wildflowers, tall mountains jutting up in the distance.

"That's cool." Glenn comments, running his fingertips along the mural.

"It's beautiful." Andrea stares at the wall also with a faint smile on her lips, amazed by how realistic the charcoal sketchings are. She can't even remember the last time she saw something so beautiful, let alone the last time she was able to afford time enough to marvel at art. Daryl looks at it briefly then lets out a vague murmur of apathy, not really caring or even interested in the custom artwork.

"Yeah, that's Alice's work." Heath points down the distance of the hall to an average-sized woman with vibrantly colourful tattoos running down both of her bare arms. Alice stands back from the mural where it abruptly ends, looking at the still blank wall from behind a pair of cat eye glasses, deep in thought as she smokes a cigarette. Her hair is held into a low sloppy bun with two pencils shoved through wavy light blonde tresses smeared with streaks of black running in sets of five, one grouped streak for each finger. She wears a dark grey tank top and denim shorts, her feet shoved into a pair of unlaced Doc Martin boots with maroon leather, smudges of black charcoal residue found constantly throughout her legs, her arms, her cheeks, _everywhere_. It almost looks like she feel into an ash pit. A young artist native to Berlin, she was in Georgia to authenticate some supposedly lost works by Alfred Sisley when the apocalypse hit and credits her survival during the apocalypse to dumb luck.

Alice looks up with hazel eyes when she hears them, having to peer over the top rim of her black cat eye glasses that have slid down her petite nose. She silently looks at them for a moment, locking eyes with Daryl for no more than a second before slowly shifting her attention back to the wall. Encroaching closer and closer, it becomes extremely clear from the potent scent that it is not a cigarette she smokes, but rather a joint that smells skunky and sweet, reminding Daryl of home, Glenn of the endless nights he spent delivering pizzas and causes Andrea to fondly reminisce about her college days.

"Hey." Heath greets Alice. Lost in her own mind, she merely nods with her chin in the subtlest of ways, her hazel eyes red and glossy yet completely focused as she mentally draws on the wall. Outstretching her left arm inked with vivid orange coy fish swimming in deep aqua waters and waterlillies, she holds the joint out for Heath to take while blowing out a thick cloud of smoke up through the corner of her plush lips.

"Say hello to the newbies, Alice - this is Glenn, Andrea and Daryl." Heath introduces, appropriately gesturing to each person at the mentioning of their name. Heath takes in a casual hit, letting the delicious taste linger on his tongue.

Alice's eyes flicker from the wall to the newcomers for a brief second, "Hallo."

Visibly holding in his breath as well as containing a coughing fit, Heath holds the smoldering joint up, silently offering it to anyone who wishes to partake in the pleasure.

Daryl is the first to snatch the joint from Heath's massive hands and bring it to his own lips, quickly taking in deep, relaxing inhale – visibly surprised at the high quality of the bud rolled inside the paper. Bar-none, this has to be some of the best grass he has ever has the liberty of smoking; it is smooth and tasteful, a perfect intense potency that relaxes him a great degree.

He hands the joint off to Glenn who graciously accepts the gift as if it is the holy grail, his dark brown eyes wide and filled with child-like wonder, "How do you guys have pot?"

"This chick has a magic green thumb," He clamps both his hands on Alice's wide shoulders, making her jump from surprise, "we found some plants growing in the woods then brought them back here and I shit you not, the very _second_ Alice here touches them, we had plants fucking taller than I am."

Alice smiles with pride, a gleeful – yet somehow mischievous – twinkle in her glossy eyes, "I know my Scheiβe." Her accent becomes more prominent; a harsh-sounding distortion of her otherwise airy voice that is just high-pitched enough to be overtly feminine.

Glenn exhales, lazily smiling as he finds his head buzzing at the end, "_Wow."_ He mouths silently.

Glenn goes to pass it to Andrea who holds up her hand, declining participation with a polite, "No, thank you."

Considering it is now rightfully her turn in the rotation, Alice instead takes the joint from Glenn and breathes the smoke in deep, filling her lungs with gloriously skunky smoke then again passes it off to Heath, who takes a quick hit before handing it off to Daryl.

Heath exhales in the circular way, with smoke-rings that flutter up towards the ceiling before dissipating into the chilled air. Then he licks his lips, an enthralling thought visibly settling on his mind, "I'm hungry. Who wants food?"

Like a young, eager student in school, Glenn raises his hand – which causes Andrea to snort a poorly withheld chuckle, which in turn causes Glenn to blush faintly with embarrassment. Heath gestures for everyone to follow him as he begins off down a seperate hallway in search of food, Andrea and Glenn quickly falling into pace behind him after saying quick farewells to Alice. Daryl goes to give Alice her joint back but she instead pulls another one out from behind her left ear, holding up a fattie rolled with expert skill in the sunlight that beams in through the windows, thus letting Daryl know he can retain possession of the one he has.

"Want to get absolutely fucking faded?" Alice asks, feeling the need for a break in her sore arms and stiff neck. It does not bother Alice to be alone when her mind is solely focused on her art, but aside from those times she has a bit of a phobia over being left alone. Something about solitude greatly bothers her, there is something about the quiet and the lonliness that she cannot stand.

"Hell yeah." Enthusiastically, Daryl agrees. With a dopey smile he takes another hit and looks at the wall again, this time with interest, finding a sudden appreciation for Alice's mural, but more correctly, the perfect view he has of Alice's supple and shapely ass as she bends down to pick her water bottle up from the floor.

"I fuckin' love this place." Daryl sighs happily to himself.

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile...<em>

Lou skips down the front steps of the prison in such a rapid way that the metallic _clinking_ of her dog tags jingling becomes audible – _tink tink tink tink_ - all the way down the stairs. Rick and Shane follow behind her, their guns casually held by their sides. Wearing her fatigue shirt open with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Lou digs an old wrinkled red and white pack of Marlboro's out from her shirt pocket, pulling out a hand rolled cigarette that she quickly lights up inside cupped hands regardless of the fact there is no breeze anymore.

Walking backwards and blowing smoke straight up as opposed to in the faces of Rick and Shane, "So, did Heath show you around?" Lou asks. Having the layout of the entire 40-acre compound memorized, she continues to walk backwards, expertly leading Rick and Shane to the separate garage behind the prison that was previously a storage shed but has found a new life as a workshop for gear-heads Kevin and David.

"He told us about the landmines and had some," Rick coughs, "very choice words about the warden over there." Rick says, waving his index finger in the general direction of the wardens house.

Louisiana waves her hand as if swatting at an unseen fly, "The landmines are nothing to worry about, if one accidentally gets triggered – and you _will_ feel it – any one of us knows how to disarm them. Kevin's the best though, but then again, bombs are kind of his specialty... And as far as Marshall goes…" Charlaine pauses, detest clearly written on her round face, "Just _don't._ That man is racist pig stuck in 1792."

"So," Lou restarts with vigor, "over there is the power hut," she waves a finger at a brick one-story building over in the southwestern corner of the compound, "Georgia State gets all its energy from solar panels and methane still underground from way back when this land was a pig farm, most everything is still operational – hot water around here is shoddy at best, but you get used to it."

"Hey, any running water at all sounds fantastic." Rick says, genuinely smiling as he begins to feel at ease in the face of modern living.

Coming around the side of the prison, the garage is now in sight. A relatively large building dwarfed by the impressive size of the prison itself, the garage is contained within a barbed wire fence all of its own, making it the perfect makeshift armory. Nearly every weapon in the collective possession of Lou's unit is contained within, assault rifles and RPG-launchers locked away from untrained hands that would undoubtedly do more harm than good if armed with such. Georgia State is thirty miles from an abandoned National Guard station and the unit has made numerous trips there to obtain as many weapons as they could transport. Within the garage a virtually limitless supply of guns and miscellaneous explosives intermingle with torque wrenches and scrap metal. Only one weapon resides on the lawn within the fence – a howitzer majestically looms over gutted cars packed tightly into the relatively small junkyard. An impressive feat of modern engineering, the extremely effective long distance weapon is intimidating all by itself – instilling a sort of awe-inspiring fear in Rick. Not fear of the weapon or fear of the people in control of it, but a dumbfounding sort of fear where the ex-Sheriff finds himself feeling an empathizing fear for whoever – or whatever – is on the receiving end of such a weapons artillery.

"Is that a howitzer?" Shane asks in utter disbelief at the new definition these people give to _prepared._

Lou nods, a dangerous smirk playing on her lips becoming a grand soliloquy about her lust for firepower, "Damn right it is."

"You're pretty heavily armed, are there a lot of walkers around here?" Rick asks.

Lou's head subtly bounces from side to side while one side of her face scrunches up, mentally flip-flopping between saying _yes_ and _no._

"Not really," She finally decides upon, "I mean, there are walkers in the woods but they aren't anything we can't handle."

Considering the fact that it appears this group can handle quite a lot, Lou's answer is not really an answer at all – and that slightly worries Rick just enough for it to show. Noticing this, Lou stops walking and looks at Rick, making an especially direct point of looking him in the eyes so as to cement the reassuring nature of her words about to come, "Look here, including myself, there are four Marines living here and we know what we're doing. We have protected this prison and everyone inside for almost five months and not once has a single walker ever even breached the perimeter. Nothing is ever getting through those gates and none of us will _ever _let anything happen to anyone here. Trust me when I say that this is the safest place to be right now. " Her words drip with an overflow of effortless and unshakeable confidence that is only further enforced by the no-bullshit demeanor with which Lou always carries herself.

Sighing silently with a relief that washes over him, Rick nods in acceptance of her assurance. Lou then nods once herself, curtly so, her vibrant eyes lingering on Rick for a moment before she resumes leading them to the garage.

"You ever see any action?" Shane asks, curiously infatuated by the entirely new species of woman Louisiana seems to be. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought passes by – without meaning to think so he is willing to bet that she is not the type of woman who needs to be told how a light switch works.

Louisiana snorts a solemn scoff that darkens her expression, "It feels like I haven't stopped seeing action since 2007. We were only back from the sandbox for two weeks before all this shit happened." It is obviously a bitter subject preferred to be left alone and Shane leaves it at that, not saying anything else, reserving himself to looking over the junkyard. The Humvee itself is covered under a blue tarp that is just a little too short, revealing its thick, deep treaded tires that can cover just about any type of terrain. A bump on the roof very clearly outlines Ma Deuce, the .50 caliber browning machine gun mounted on the roof that can either lay down automatic or semi-automatic firing that can also be adapted to be a sniping rifle. Indeed, Ma Deuce is just about the most versatile weapon around that can bring down zombies and entire civilizations alike.

They come upon the garage's fence, causing Louisiana to fish a ring of keys from her baggy jeans pocket, instantly honing in on the one which opens the massive padlock chained around the fence. Slipping the key into the slot, she gets the lock off and pulls the chain with thick, heavy links out from the diamond-shaped holes in the fence. As she drags the gate open, causing a loud rattling as it skips over the bumpy ground, Kevin and David pop their heads out from under the hood of a stripped-down F-350. Dirty and sweaty from working outside all day, Kevin wipes his filthy hands on a dirty rag already covered with chalky black grease – saying something brief to David before walking towards Lou, Rick and Shane.

"Kevin, this is Rick and Shane." Lou introduces, gesturing to Rick and calling him Shane, while gesturing to Shane and calling him Rick.

"Actually, I'm Shane-"

"And I'm Rick."

"Close enough." Lou mutters under her breath, unheard by any of the men in her immediate vicinity.

"Hi," Kevin does not shake their hand, but rather holds up his dirty palms – Rick and Shane both understanding that he simply does not want to transfer grime.

Kevin is about to say something, but as his green eyes follow Lou's trail over to the Humvee, they suddenly become as wide as tennis balls, fearful of something.

"Lou – Wait! Before you do that-" But he is not fast enough, only catching Louisiana just as she gains a firm grip on the tarp and yanks it off with one great tug.

As the tarp flutters to the ground, "Oh. My. God." Louisiana deadpans when she sees the Humvee.

The Humvee had been repainted; instead of the typical paint pattern of desert camouflage, the sturdy Humvee is bright orange with large athletic-style block numbers _01_ painted onto the door in black.

"Why is our Humvee painted like the General Lee?" Louisiana asks, still deadpanning as her face remains void of any disscernable emotion, which is perhaps even scarier than any rage one could hold.

Grinning like a damn fool, David interjects, "Isn't it awesome?"

She blinks once. She blinks twice. But she does not say anything. She just keeps staring at the Humvee, face blank but mind reeling as she angrily wonders why Kevin and David felt the need to paint their safest vehicle like the fucking car from Dukes of Hazzard.

Kevin nods, "It is pretty awesome, Lou. Can I get a little help on this?" Kevin asks, turning to Rick and Shane for support.

"Don't get in involved." Lou says quickly, suddenly snapping out of her own mind. She then glares at Kevin, extremely unhappy with the Humvee's paint job but doing her very best to contain her anger.

"Where did you even get the paint for this?" She asks.

Kevin gently scratches the back of his sun burnt neck with his dirty hand, turning his reddened flesh black, "We took it from that auto detailing shop in town."

Louisiana looks from Kevin to the Humvee and then back again before letting out a long sigh that acts like a pressure release – freeing her pent-up discontent and calming her down.

Shaking her head, "Whatever." She finally says, greatly exasperated.

"Really? That's it?" Kevin asks, surprised.

"Yeah, that's it." Louisiana nods, still sounding tired and worn, "Get in." She says to Shane and Rick, swooping her arm up and flicking two fingers towards the Humvee's doors in gesture.

While Shane and Rick pile in, Louisiana yanks open the driver's side door and hoists herself up into the cabin, settling into the seat there. With one hand resting curled around the interior door handle, she looks at Kevin, willing to let the entire General Humve-Lee incident go if he is willing to do something for her, "If you got paint for this, you're going into town and getting Alice some paint for that mural she's been working on."

Kevin smiles, "I already got it. I'm just waiting for the right moment to give it to her."

"You're such a fuckin' sap." Louisiana jokes lightly. Kevin shrugs, admitting as much and not caring in the least. It is no secret that he has a thing for the young pot-smoking artist, at least not to anyone who has two eyes and sees first-hand the way he looks at her.

"Whoa – wait a minute," Kevin says, visibly snapping into reality, "Where the hell are you going?" He asks.

"They've got five more waiting at a camp up river, gonna give 'em a lift." She responds, jerking her head slightly to the side as she references Rick.

"Be safe." Kevin says with a meaningful stare.

"Always am." Lou smiles reassuringly, the sound of her voice drowned out as the engine roars to life.

* * *

><p>Dale sits atop the RV, switching between scanning the distance with binoculars and drinking water to quench his insatiable thirst. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, letting out a breath through pursed lips. It almost feels like he is boiling, that is how hot it is. Down below, Carol and Lori stand with their feet in the river, both of their pants rolled up to the knee. They chat about random things while cooling their heels and keeping a watchful eye on Carl who swims in the slow-moving river. Inside the RV, T-Dog naps, still recovering from the infected cut on his arm that is finally starting to heal properly. T-Dog has a chronic snoring problem, and from the roof Dale can hear his bear-like snores that seem to rattle the old Winnebago.<p>

Spotting a moving object in the distance that rises over the crest of a hill, Dale picks up the binoculars that hang from a strap around his neck. He brings it to his eyes and peers out – only confusing himself further upon inspection.

"What the hell…" He mumbles quietly to himself. He lowers the binoculars from his eyes and looks out, then brings them back up again, absolutely perplexed until the object comes a little closer and he realizes that the object in the distance is a Humvee painted neon orange, a confederate flag painted on the roof where a machine gun is mounted.

"Hey, Lori, come look at this." Dale calls down, cupping his hands around his mouth to magnify his voice – which by doing so, he must have woken T-Dog because his snoring abruptly stops.

Lori holds a flattened hand to her brow, shading her eyes so she can see better as she rises from her chair, gazing into the wide-open field that bursts with the bright pinks and purples of wildflowers. Carol, who sits beside her, glances over her shoulder – instantly recognizing the front end from all the military documents her late husband watched, which in turn was the only thing that she ever really watched… aside from Bear Grylls.

"That's a Humvee." Carol confirms.

"But it's bright orange… Oh my god, _and_ there's a giant gun on the roof!" Lori exclaims. Never much being one for guns, not as a general fear but the sort of fear for the inevitable, the fear of it – as they say – falling into the wrong hands.

Carl strains his neck to try and see the sight that his mother, Carol and Dale gawk at, but from the middle of the river, he can't see anything so he begins to swim for shore.

T-Dog throws open the RV's door, descending down the retracting steps a little shakily, still half-asleep. He rubs the dreams from his eyes with a balled fist and then looks around, noticing that everyone is looking out to the field – forcing him to observe the distance as well. When he sees the bright orange Humvee painted like the General Lee, he sighs a deep sigh and climbs back into the RV, muttering harsh words about rednecks under his breath.

Just as Carl gets out of the water he is able to see the orange Humvee bounding over the hilly field, quickly approaching their camp – instantly grinning wide as he recognizing the tell-tale paint design. One of his favourite movies of all time is the 2005 movie based on the very same 80's television show, Dukes of Hazzard, from which the Humvee's paint design comes from.

"That's awesome!" Carl exclaims. Lori looks at him from the corner of her eyes, inwardly groaning.

"What the hell has that husband of mine gotten us into this time?" Her soft-spoken question rendered completely rhetorical, Lori sighs while shaking her head faintly from side-to-side, all the while feeling an intense headache settling in.

* * *

><p>Please Review<p> 


	5. Say Uncle!

I deeply apologize ahead of time for any typos or grammatical errors that appear in this chapter. Microsoft word is going hinky on me right now but I did my best to read all 8,700 words of this and make sure everything was kosher.

Chapter 5: Say Uncle!

Enjoy! ;)

* * *

><p><em>Ring around the walkers,<em>

_Guns are filled with bullets,_

_Arrows, Axes,_

_We all fall down._

* * *

><p>Even though every Marine is a trained rifleman, as per requirement, snipers gather special training above and beyond simple marksmanship, which is actually far more an innate skill than a learned one. Snipers are finely trained in the arts of navigation, reconnaissance, counter surveillance , camouflage, survival, evasion, escape, detection of where enemy fire is coming from and a plethora of other handy-dandy skills. As it turns out, these skills also come highly beneficial during a living dead apocalypse.<p>

However, no matter the training and the hours of learning and the experience of trial and error, the greatest advantage Lou believes in beyond-a-doubt, is her innate instinct - her ability to process the most microscopic of clues better than Sherlock Holmes himself and then react, all within a mere fraction of a second. Keen enough to be considered a paranormal sixth-sense, her guttural instinct is an infallible compass that always guides her in the right direction via a feeling closest described as a pulling of her stomach. Louisiana's perspicacious personality has proved to perpetually perform perfectly, just like earlier today when somehow she just knew to look at the field when Rick Grime's group was making their treacherous journey to Georgia State.

However, such skill and aptitude is not something able to be simply turned off or tuned out. Once you get into the mindset of seeing every glint as an enemy sniper and every loud noise as a gunshot, it is damn near impossible to stop seeing peril in everyday situations. It also does not help in any way, shape or form that Louisiana carries an ubiquitous hyper-vigilance.

It is that oh-so engrained part of psyche that makes Lou duck behind the Humvee the moment she steps down, simultaneously taking immediate hold of her trusty Glock kept ever-strapped to her thigh, when she catches a reflective glint from high-up in her peripheral vision that makes her heart stall – instinct and training making her react to the interpreted danger faster than the firing of synapses. Instead of seeing an old man, sitting in a lawn chair on the roof of an RV with a pair of binoculars, she sees a sniper sitting in an advantageous perch, the glint from a scope shining as he readies to fire.

Gaining quick control of her heart beat and breathing, strictly forcing regulation upon her body like snipers are also trained to do, Lou realizes her humiliating mistake. It could be the awkward, wary looks from the people in the camp that first make her acknowledge her mental fumble or it could be the reminder that she is in Nowheresville, Georgia – but no sooner than her knees touch grass and she raises her gun to take aim, with a grand amount of clarity she realizes her embarrassing mistake. Rising from the ground, she straps her heavy black Glock back to her thigh then brushes her bangs to the side, succeeding to disguise just how mortified she is by her overreaction. But what makes her blushing that could easily be dismissed as a sunburn so easily waived is that the people at camp have no predisposition to her ubiquitous hyper-vigilance. They don't know, at least not yet – she hopes, that things like this are not unusual for her to do.

Whether it be waking up in the middle of the night, drawing the gun from under her pillow, aiming at Emily who was just knocking on the door because she had a nightmare or accidentally seeing the scope of an enemy target in an old man with binoculars, Lou has more than her fair share of embarrassing quandaries under her belt.

She clears her throat. Shoves her hands into her pockets. Pretends like she just didn't almost shoot an old man out of pure instinct, and for the most part, it works.

Shane is the sole person who notices Capt. Lyzette's reaction and makes a mental connection. Like synaptic bridges forming or gears clicking into place, he remembers how she completely blew up in their faces earlier – the sudden rage coming from nowhere, her hyper-vigilance just now and the darkened way to her amber and blue eyes are all signs Shane recognizes easily, bridging all these instances with previous memories. He has – _had –_ some friends who were in Desert Storm and he understands perfectly the four-lettered acronym that carries such a hauntingly depressing connotation.

Catching the subtle hints of embarrassment, Shane also remembers how the diagnosis affected his friends, how it made them feel sub-par and secluded.

"Damn. They train you guys good in the Marines." He says as a passing comment to Lou, just loud enough for everyone else to hear, as he makes his way towards his tent. Lou's heterochromatic eyes flicker over to him, at first confused. However, when their eyes meet and Shane hones in on her expressive eyes, Lou visibly becomes overwhelmed with a grateful understanding of what he just did. With brown and blue eyes, she thanks him with a for his effortless cover of what Lou's considers her own personal Goliath with a deep and meaningful gratitude that could never be correctly translated into words. And with a subtle nod Shane says _you're welcome_, then disappears behind a tent, Lou's eyes following him the entire time, taken aback by his silent kindness.

Along with her eyes pulled towards him, so is her stomach – the tell-tale sign of her instinct telling her something. Yet, for the life of her, Louisiana cannot decipher what it means. With every other guttural pulling she has experienced, she has easily been able to tell whether it is a good thing or a bad thing. But not this time. No, this time her instinct is simply pointing her in Shane's direction, like a compass without markings.

With Shane gone from her sight, Lou waves to Dale on the top of the RV to apologize without apologizing for almost shooting him in the head. Uneasily, he returns the gesture and then begins descending the ladder running down the decrepit Winnebago's fat ass.

"Lori this is-" Rick first introduces Lou to Lori but just like he has been interrupted many times earlier via Lou's mordant nature, he is again. His slender face pulls back, left eye wanting to twitch as he swallows the irritation building in his chest cavity.

"Lou. Captain Lou Lyzette, at your service." She says with a bite of sarcasm so deeply engrained into her Cajun-accented voice it is barely distinguishable as she outstretches her right hand.

Lori accepts Lou's firm handshake, a spark of curiosity in her eyes, "Are you really a Marine?" she asks.

Lou blinks once. She blinks twice. She wonders if the question is meant to be rhetorical, though from how Lori hangs on for an answer with urging brown eyes and raised brows, Lou realizes the woman just must be daft.

"Yes ma'am." Slowly, Lou responds.

Lori smiles, oblivious to Lou's mordant bite, "Oh, I think that is just great – I mean to be a woman and be a Marine - and a Captain no less!" Lori laughs, "My father was a Marine and if he could see this…" Another laugh, a little more uneasy – hinting at the derogatory disbelief her father would have, "Well, as a woman, I have to say I admire you." For whatever faults Lori may have that she will never be aware of, and then furiously deny when alerted of, she is nothing but honest with compliments and Lou can see that. Lou's demeanor changes slightly, relaxing more into her sturdy and stoic stance.

She almost forgot what compliments where, especially those heart-warming sort of ones delivered by Lori, the compliments that pay homage to great respect.

"Thank you." Lou says, visibly meaning every word whole-heartedly.

Carol stands with a soft smile on her face between the slender brunette and a young boy whom is the perfect embodiment of 50/50 homogenization between mother and father, "I think that's just great, too." She says. A reserved woman with a quiet demeanor and a hesitancy towards friction, Carol is rather amazed to meet a female of Lou's stature. Sure, she knew that women were allowed in one of the toughest branches of the military but coming face-to-face with one, especially during these apocalyptic times, instills her with a robust surge of feminism. It makes the now childless widow believe that she could find more strength in her when such a daunting idea seemed previously impossible. If someone as young and rather plain looking as Lou can be so self-confident and effortlessly strong - _and _serve her country, surely Carol can find the strength to keep pushing on.

A bitter, sad thought lingers in the back of Carol's mind, a longing wish that Sophia had been able to meet Lou. Carol always wanted her daughter to have a strong female role-model, something she pragmatically knew she could not be, and it brings her such a grievance that she has to turn around and walk away when she feels the familiar burning of tears brimming in her eyes. She misses her daughter, her sweet, innocent little daughter so much that it is unbearable. Usually one finely skilled in the art of hiding the larger portion of her deep-rooted despair, Carol is unable to find the strength to simply grin and bear it any longer.

After sharing a look with Rick, Lori follows after Carol with a giddy-up to her steps. For how well Carol tried to disguise her crying, with her back turned, the vigorous shaking of her shoulders renders her retreat redundant.

"Did I say something?" Lou asks Rick.

Rick sighs, shaking his head in gentle denial, "She just lost her daughter."

His words strike a chord with Charlaine, who cannot – nor wants to – imagine the pain Carol must be feeling. If she lost Emily, and damn her for even thinking such a disturbing thought, Lou knows she would fall into a tail-spin down a dismally dark abyss of despair. Her heart goes out to the woman.

Louisiana does not need to ask how Carol lost a daughter. In the apocalypse, the _only_ way someone dies is via the living dead.

As a grateful change of subject, after walking by Carol and promptly being shooed away by Lori, Dale walks up with a slow pace, closely inspecting the woman who almost put a round through his skull the as he approaches closer and closer.

Lou is not sure what to say to the bearded man in a vacation shirt. She does not believe the situation deserves an actual apology because she technically did nothing wrong – she just overreacted due to training and instinct, though that is simply what she tells herself because Louisiana refuses to fully acknowledge that she has such a cowards disease as PTSD.

It is awkward between she and him when he first arrives, until Louisiana soothes the friction she initiated with the first words that come to mind, "Saw a glint off of your binoculars there."

_Great, Lou – pin the blame on him. Nice one, dumbass._

Dale shifts between Rick and Louisiana as focal points, deep wrinkles crinkling out from the corners of his eyes as he squints against the sun, closely inspecting Louisiana with a spark of recognition as if he knows her.

"Sorry." Lou quickly counters, the words leaving a sour taste on her pierced tongue because she still believes an apology is not completely warranted – rather, she tells herself that the old man is overreacting.

It is not like she actually shot him or anything…

Dale's shoulders become less tense along with a decreasing intensity in his deep crow's feet as he relaxes, falling subtly more into ease, "Well, I suppose nowadays a little overreaction never hurt."

"I'm Louisiana." Along with her introduction, the buxom redhead offers a small friendly smile with a handshake, again from her right hand as is proper form while her left remains wrist-deep in her pants pockets.

"Dale, nice to meet you. So, is that your real name or are you from Louisiana?" He asks.

Lou nods proudly, "Lafourche parish born and raised." Speaking of her home-town, inadvertently trapped in homeland reminiscence, her accent kicks into overdrive.

Looking at the nametag on her wide-open desert camouflage shirt over a blue tank top which bears the last name _Lyzette,_ the familiar surname connects with her face in Dale's mind. With inquisitive eyes narrowed, "Are you by any chance related to an Antoine Lyzette?"

"Yeah – he's my Pa. D'you know him?" Charlaine is visibly taken aback by Dale, but only in the minutest of ways for her father was an infamous gator hunter, something of a local celebrity.

Yet, for as taken aback as Lou was, Dale magnifies it ten-fold – his eyes becoming wide and free of wrinkles as his jaw goes lax. He blinks slowly, visibly trying to correctly string together a sentence as he stands in utter disbelief.

"He was my brother." Dale says, quiet as he is stunned, "My God... You look just like her." He says even quieter, mystefied.

Lou blinks once. She blinks twice. "I met all my uncles." Lou says skeptically although her words are betrayed by how she mimics Dale's disbelief with wide eyes and slack jaw. Although, her shock is for a completely different reason - she is unwilling to believe that her father whom she greatly admired kept something of this magnitude from her. While her father may of had his secrets, family was the most important thing to him and Charlaine can simply not believe that he would have omitted this kind of detail. It is one thing to not mention every third cousin twice removed but to completely bypass a sibling - _an uncle -_ is another.

Rick and Carl watch silently, father and son standing close to each other as they share in observance of the reunion Dale never thought he would see, the very same reunion Lou denies the existence of.

Dale licks his lips, swallowing as he blinks slowly, "I…," He pauses, taking in a deep breath, "We grew up together in Lafayette. We had different fathers, but our mother, Desiree Dupart –" At the mention of her grandmothers name, something a stranger could not possibly know, Louisiana's demeanor changes as she begins to believe Dale, but she does so in a protective way – her arms crossing under her supple chest, "After she died in '71, I went to live with my father in Virginia and Antoine went to live with his. After we moved, we never spoke again... Our fathers really hated each other, look - I know this is a lot, but Antoine Lyzette really was my brother, which would make you my niece." Dale finishes his explanation then uncle and niece are left looking at each other in silence. Dale is pleased with this chance meeting, a smile growing on his thin lips which speaks to the amazement he is caught up in as he feels something he has not genuinely felt for a long time - happiness as he comes face-to-face with a family member, an honest-to-god living Niece that he did not even know he had.

Louisiana, however, is conflicted about the entire coincidence, stuck between happiness and betrayal over her father's omission of facts, and it shows – much to the blatant disappointment of Dale. Looking like he had spent three weeks working up the courage to ask the most popular girl out to prom and being denied in the most embarrassing sort of ways, his face dramatically falls.

Rick places a hand over Carl's small shoulder, directing the boy away to give the amazingly united family members some privacy.

"Louisiana, I can understand where you're coming from but Antoine was always a very…" he struggles to find the right word.

"Private person." Lou deadpans, offering the correct word Dale had been looking for.

Gently, Dale nods in agreement, "Like I said, we never kept in touch after we were separated. He probably just thought it was better to not talk about me considering my absence from his life." Dale takes in a deep breath, Louisiana doing the same. Her eyes dart away from Dale to gaze upon the slow moving river to her left as she begins to digest all the information just dropped on her like a bomb.

Some newbies show up at the prison. She gives them a ride back to their camp and fucking AbraCadaver, she has an uncle.

"I have a picture of us somewhere in the RV with our mother. Would you like to see it?" Dale asks.

Louisiana's eyes snap back to him, staring at him with a blaring intensity that Dale can't decipher because Louisiana is not yet even sure what it is she's feeling.

With her pale brows tightly knitted together, her entire forehead folding in on itself, she licks her dry lips - a curious emulsification of nausea, intrigue and confusion blatant on her round face with soft features and a slight cleft to her chin that reminds Dale so much of his mother.

Her smooth voice obtains a slight rasp, "Yeah, I would."

Dale leads her to his Winnebago, keeping perfect pace as they walk side-by-side so close that their shoulders almost touch. He resists the urge to look at her the entire journey over such a short distance, and so does she.

* * *

><p>T-Dog leans against the galley sink, drinking water from a canteen when Charlaine and Dale enter. T-Dog looks over, brown eyes roaming from Lou's head with messy shoulder-length auburn hair to her chamois coloured boots – pausing slightly first on her large breasts with deep cleavage that bulge slightly against an icy blue tank top that is too tight around her chest and then on the Glock strapped to her chest and the seven-inch knife hanging from her belt that remind him her eyes are <em>up there.<em>

"T-Dog, this is my niece." Dale says, subconsciously overjoyed with his newly discovered relative to the point where is not even aware of his word choice until he says it aloud.

Dale referring to her as such makes Louisiana a nudge more uncomfortable as she remains unsure of what to make of this predicament. But quietly, in the back of her head, a thought zips through her mind.

_Holy shit. I almost killed my Uncle._

T-Dog's brows raise high, stretching to the top of his smooth forehead, "_Niece?"_ He asks, coughing on the water he had been trying to drink but instead ended up breathing when he was surprised.

"Louisiana." Lou says in introduction with a vague wave, barely even recognizing T-Dog standing there.

Dale gestures to the table, "Take a seat and I'll find that picture." He smiles kindly while directing her, barely succeeding in containing how thrilled he is. Even before the apocalypse, he had thought all his family was dead and this chance encounter has him all caught up in a rush of joy.

Silently, Lou sits down. She rests her hands on the table top, her eyes become downcast as she despondently watches herself wring her own hands.

"It's really nice to meet a relative of Dale's. You know, your uncle is one hell of a guy." T-Dog says, sliding into the bench seat across from her.

Louisiana looks up at him, her two-toned eyes pleasantly surprising T-Dog for how unique they are – aside from Huskies, he has never seen someone with eyes that are so vivid and so different in shade. One amber and one aqua, each smoothly so and her aqua eye glittering with flecks of gold.

"I wouldn't know," Louisiana says honestly, "I didn't meet him until today."

T-Dog is now greatly confused and visibly so, "_Huh_?" He asks.

"I just met him now… I guess him and my Pa were brothers." With her left hand, she again brushes back her bangs, tucking the long ends behind her ear – the scarred bite-mark on her wrist shown.

T-Dog freezes, staring wide-eyed at the scar, "What's that?" He asks, pointing at it.

Lou looks down at her own wrist - still quiet and somewhat despondent, the gears in her mind too preoccupied with processing her newly discovered uncle to understand what T-Dog is talking about. She presses her back against the wall, slouching down slightly in her seat as she places her hands in her lap underneath the table, "It's a scar." Lou says with a tone that very clearly signals her desire for the inquisition over her immunity to be done. Suddenly, she is feeling too tired and worn to offer any more of an explanation.

Obviously, the mark circling over the outer side of her left wrist is a scar and T-Dog did not need Louisiana to state the redundant. Even though he wants to question further, he does not – not necessarily because that is obvious what Lou wants, but out of respect for Dale that is extended to her.

So, instead, he crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in his seat, keeping his eyes keen on the busty redhead.

Dale comes out from the RV's bedroom, a small four-by-six inch photograph in his hands and a wide grin on his face as he gazes upon the memory frozen in time printed on paper that has yellowed and bent from time.

"Here." He hands the picture over to her, standing at the end of the table. Louisiana gingerly takes the photograph from him, swallowing back a lump in her throat before she looks at it.

But when she does, Dale's affirmation of relation is cemented as there is no doubt about the blonde boy sitting in a boat next to an older brown-haired boy, whom is obviously Dale who now stands before her. Louisiana holds the treasured photograph cradled gently with both hands, fondly looking down upon it as she recognizes the young face of her father, trapped on the picture paper in all his blonde haired and ten-year-old glory. The two little boys sit on either side of a mid-thirties woman with long wavy auburn hair, recognizably her Grammy Dupart, who has a wide grin on her round face as she wraps an arm around either little boy. They all smile up in the camera, sitting on an air-boat with swampy cypress trees covered in bright green moss fill the background, lining a near-placid bayou the winds around a distant corner.

Whenever Lou sees her grandmother, it never fails to surprise her how much they look alike. She could be a carbon copy of her paternal grandmother if it weren't for the eyes.

For the first time since Dale told her of their relation, a smile cracks open Lou's lips.

"That's my Pa and la grand-mère Dupart." She whispers, mainly just talking to herself. She traces a finger pad over his young face, feeling a fresh sting of sadness over his death eighteen months ago. However, her sadness over the loss of her father quickly turns into an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness because her father had the luck to die a year before the apocalypse hit and never had to see the God forsaken cannibalistic abominations that roam the earth. Instead, he just passed away from lung cancer one night while he was asleep – he went out peaceful, knowing his daughter was serving her country in Iraq and her brother was running the family business while raising his two beautiful children with his wife. Her father died happy and just in the nick of time. Even though losing him is not something she ever thought she would be happy about – she is. She is wholly at peace with his death now, realizing that he was spared all the horrors she cannot forget - nor will ever be able to.

"I know this may be terribly out of place, but can I keep this? I don't have any pictures of him." Louisiana asks, looking up at Dale.

Dale nods, smiling softly, "Of course."

Louisiana smiles back, soft and friendly as she accepts Dale as her uncle – causing Dale's smile to grow into a grin.

"Go figure that it takes the fucking end of the world for me to find out I have an uncle." Lou says.

* * *

><p>Lou stands at the river's edge with her feet firmly planted far-apart into the sandy terrain, her arms crossed under her busty chest as she watches the languid river flow. She breathes in the heavy, humid air and tunes the thoughts ripping through her mind down to white-noise, simply allowing herself a sparse moment of peace.<p>

Running her fingers through her shoulder-length light auburn hair, she yanks out the few knots she finds and then carelessly ties her hair back with a blue-grey elastic tied to her right wrist. On the base of her neck, just under her hairline and barely visible over her shirt collar, an amateur tattoo inked into her tanned skin there – _USMC 603.913-13 _is scrawled in faded black ink, messy and sloppy with uneven characters. It is not a tattoo Lou willingly set out to get. After being injured during a fire-fight while on a transport, she woke up in a military hospital with the pain of fresh ink in her neck. She was told it is an identification tag and nothing more but that was little more than a bold-faced lie and she knows it – hell, even the doctor who told her was aware of it. None of the other injured soldiers sitting in the hospital cots that smelt like bleach had sloppy tattoos on the back of their necks.

Out of absent-minded habit, she scratches gently at the back of her neck as if simply scraping short and blunt-edged nails against flesh is enough to dig out ink pushed down through five layers of skin. All the time she used to wonder about the tattoo, ponder the meaning behind it, but that passed practically the second she left the hospital. She barely even thinks about it these days, except when she gets high with Alice and becomes completely enthralled by its enigmatic origins.

When Lou hears the heavy footsteps someone approaching from behind she snaps to attention, twisting her torso and stretching her neck over her right shoulder to see who it is. Shane closes the distance between them with wide, yet relaxed strides, both his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets.

"You guys ready to move?" She questions, making assumptions as to why the stalky man has sought her out.

"Hell no. It'll probably be another hour before _they're,_" he spits, clearly distinguishing himself with contempt from the rest of the group, "ready to go."

He comes to a stop by her right side, joining her in watching the river for a calm moment in which Lou watches the brooding man closely from the corner of her eyes. She takes him in, every miniscule detail – from his posture that cements him to the sandy beach to the microexpressions in his face, weighing every singular aspect of his composition; sizing him up, discreetly taking stock. As a good judge of character, it does not take Louisiana long to firmly grasp that Shane is the type of person who always has the best of intentions but constantly finds himself led astray; while he is confident and relatively stoic – a sturdy oak, there is also something disturbed, something haunting about him. There is a distinct darkness to his demeanor and while most people would find this hidden yet discernable knavish way off-putting, Louisiana has never been one who conformed to the majority. She is a connoisseur of the sinfully esoteric; someone who can appreciate a little darkness in a person considering she is a woman with her own convoluted complexities. She is damaged, he is damaged – and not just in the way that every Apocalyptite is. Damaged in the slightly psychotic sort of way.

She likes it, approves of it, and finds herself drawn to such a person because of the similarities they share. It doesn't hurt that Shane rather embodies her physical preferences in the opposite sex – hard features, muscular and stalwart.

Just as her thoughts begin to venture south, Shane opens his mouth, thus pulling Lou out of her mind and back into reality, "_Whut?"_ he asks, voice deep.

Apparently, Lou was not as discrete with her staring as she thought she was, "You're fucked up," She says blunt with her honest words meant to pay compliment – finding absolutely nothing wrong, morally or otherwise, with her phrasing, "I like that." She finishes, holding his gaze for a lingering second before returning her heterochromatic eyes to the slow-moving river just beyond their feet.

"Am I supposed to say thank you to that?"

With a smirk on her plush lips, Lou responds without skipping a beat, "That is the appropriate response for a compliment."

Shane's brows raise, "You call me fucked up and that's a _compliment?"_ He stretches out the word _compliment_, putting a disbelieving emphasis on the otherwise harmless word.

"I said _I like that_ after."

Shane releases a perplexed breath that sounds very similar to a _huh_ and then with a subtle cock to his head, he finally finds a fitting reply, "You're fucked up." He says, a little harsher than how Lou had but with relatively the same connotation.

"Thank you." Lou smiles, dramatically over-emphasizing her gratitude to illustrate her point.

Shane laughs lowly – just once, not enough to be considered laughter, instead only a breathy murmur of amusement and more discreetly approval.

So, as Lou stands next to him with her arms crossed under her chest, Shane takes his opportunity now to examine her every aspect like she did just moment before. For the most part, the tall redhead appears rather plain with her smooth round face and slender features coupled with her buxom but strength-holding physique. Yet, with the shocking and intriguing beauty of her two-toned eyes and the palpable air of keen aptitude she is anything but ordinary or plain. A Glock strapped to her left thigh and a KA-BAR which has a seven-inch blade tough enough to cut down trees and bone alike act as personality exclamation points, probably accentuating a warning to most people. But Shane has never been most people. Charlaine's danger, her steely toughness and perfect blend of masculine strength of feminine beauty, though not in an androgynous way, is immensely attractive to him – her personality exclamation points screaming something different entirely to him.

Dale, who had been walking by the river as he helps the others pack up the few remaining objects laying about, notices Lou and Shane standing close together, talking with that look tell-tale look in their eyes which makes his heart jump up into his throat.

He may only have known Lou as his niece for a half-hour yet he knows with righteous conviction deep within him that there is no way in hell he is going to let his niece and a murdering bastard become a pair, if even only for a night.

Dale puts down the two lawn chairs he had been carrying and walks over to Lou and Shane, clearing his throat as he approaches the sandy shore to alert them.

They both look behind them, Lou offering a friendly greeting while Shane reserves himself to silence in the face of the man who called him out on his Otis-bluff.

"You and my _niece _getting along, Shane?" Dale asks while stealing Shane's gaze, as menacing as he can muster, intending to intimidate the black-haired man but instead he inadvertently ignites Shane like throwing kerosene on a fire. Dale has been keeping Shane in check with the knowledge he has of Otis' murder, keeping him under his thumb. Shane only follows along and does what Dale says because he really has no choice, well, aside from leaving the group all together which would leave Shane to travel through a walker-infested wasteland alone. Until now, Shane gritted his teeth and danced along to Dale's tune, begrudgingly so but smart enough to realize that there is safety and numbers. Shane is no fool. Just like he knows that he is better off living with the group, he also knows when a woman is flirting with him and thus he is pretty damn sure that he has a good chance with her. She even said it herself, she _likes him __for being fucked up_. 

Shane has been left with a bone to pick with Dale and the old man has just granted him the best way to retaliate; Shane can pick his bone by boning Dale's niece, a grand opportunity the off-kilter man appreciates more than one should.

Dale calling her his niece still makes Lou uncomfortable, if only for how new it is to her. It feels too weird; still over-powered with that brand new long-lost relative scent. She soothes down her bangs while forcing her eyes back upon the calm river.

"Lou's your niece? Imagine that, only a few handfuls of people left in the world and you find your niece," Shane says, feigning a surprise that lacks poisonous and mischievous intentions which his eyes clearly display, "That's incredible." He finishes, perverse glee twinkling his dark eyes. Dale knows how fake Shane is being, he is able to plainly read through the lines and see Shane for the vile man he is yet all of this, the entire deeper meaning to this interaction is completely missed by Lou who remains oblivious as she fishes a cigarette from her shirt pocket.

Lou nods, "Yeah, it's pretty… _incredible_." She sticks the cigarette between her lips then ignites a lighter, marrying flame and tip, then taking in a deep inhale. She honestly cannot fathom just how incredible – and not just figuring out she has an uncle in her mist. She honestly cannot fathom how incredibly lucky she has been throughout the whole apocalypse. From being immune, to being able to save Emily, to finding Georgia State and then finally to finding Dale… While she may remain oblivious to the fact that there is something more going on between Dale and Shane, she is not oblivious to how lucky she is.

She has to fight the urge to check the bottom of her boots, wondering if perhaps she stepped on a leprechaun at some point.

_Wait... Would that be good luck or bad luck?_

Dale and Shane hold a look, each trying to intimidate the other to back down. For Dale's threat of exposing Shane, Shane in-turn counters with his own threat of sleeping with the only family member Dale miraculously has left. Neither threat is hollow and neither intimidator is willing to back down.

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile...<em>

Cleaned up after vigorous use of some moist-towelettes, Alice sits cross-legged on her bed, going through the rhythms of grinding up buds of marijuana in a grinder and then sprinkling them into a rolling paper, all the while explaining with intricate detail the strict regimen she adheres to that allows her plants to flourish. Stoned in a way that he never has been before, and with his back turned to Alice, Daryl only listens with half-interest as he stares with ruby-red eyes and mouth partially agape at the four plants lining the wall opposing her cot. The four plants that reach up to his chest are fragrant as can be, filling not only Alice's room, but the entire hallway beyond with a very strong and distinct scent, like dried marijuana only a thousand times stronger. Above the plants there is are four long, heavy duty cylindrical grow-light is affixed to the ceiling but they are currently off – apparently as per Alice's routine. Her set-up is pretty advanced given their unique situation for there are even small tubes that curl into the base of their pots filled with fertile soil which automatically deliver water to the plants from a bucket and pump with a clock attached to it in the corner.

Leave it to a German to figure out how to engineer an irrigation system from catheter tubes and a breast milk pump.

Part of the reason why Daryl only listens with half-interest is that he can only understand half of the things she says. Her accent has become thicker as she becomes too lazy to actually fully articulate how different the sounds are between German and English, and not only that but every now and then she gives up on using English completely, always using Schieβe in place of _shit_ and referring to her plants as _meine kleine Lieblings, _which apparently means her little darlings – or quite literally, my favourites.

Daryl reaches out, touching one of the nine-pointed leaves, rubbing the thick leaf between his thumb and forefinger, wondering at the sensation felt by the nerve endings there as he touches the plant. He's so stoned, it is almost like his fingers are having little tiny orgasms.

And it couldn't be with a more beautiful plant.

The plants are all ripe with massive buds, sticky and dense with a white sheen – glorious White Widow plants. He glances over his shoulder to Alice, finding that she is wholly preoccupied with rolling a joint, yet still talking. But – she is not looking at him, which is what is important. Turning back around, Daryl smirks to himself as he sneakily takes out his pocket knife and cuts off a large bud from one of the plants that is easily the size of a banana. Pocketing it, he turns back around and leans against a nearby wall, relaxing with his arms crossed over his chest.

As soon as he moves away from the plant, Alice can tell that a large bud is missing – he wasn't exactly trying to be discrete, but waives his thievery because she views these plants as communal. Everyone is welcome to them granted they do not get greedy.

"_Zo,_ that's how it done." Alice says – both referring to how she grows and to the thick joint she now pulls through her lips in order to securely seal it.

With a jerky nod of his chin in her direction, "Why do you do it?" Daryl asks.

Confused, Alice freezes, her eyes widening as her jaw goes slack while the joint is clamped between her lips, the flame of a lighter held just beyond the tip, "Do what?"

"That fuckin' wall, man – why do you spend all day drawing on it? I'm just curious is all, never much understood shit like that."

Alice's face changes as she realizes what Daryl is referring to, not becoming offended but rather looking like she has heard the question a thousand times before.

"Art makes me people happy. It always has and it always will. It is actually chemical, you know. We are biologically conditioned to like symmetrical, beautiful things and when you look at good art endorphins are released in your brain and you will get a feeling of pleasure. So, if I can give people some pleasure among all this Schieβe, _while _reminding them how beautiful life really is… Well, then, it is my job to as an artist." She brings flame to tip then takes puffing inhales to get the joint smoldering properly.

_Huh, _Daryl muses nearly slightly. Alice takes a long hit and then passes it off to Daryl who takes a seat beside her on the squeaky cot shoved up against one wall. Holding in her breath, Alice leans back against the wall, sliding down to settle like a crescent against the thin mattress.

She releases a cloud of smoke with a small sigh, "You probably think I am a _dummkopf,_" colloquially an idiot, "for believing life is still beautiful."

Daryl shakes his head from side-to-side while holding in his breath and after releasing it, "We're all still alive. That's pretty fuckin' beautiful."

She turns her head, stealing Daryl's gaze with her hazel eyes accentuated by the sleek frame and subtle flare to the ends of her glasses. For a moment, it seems something meaningful but then Alice busts out into a laughing fit

Alice giggles, crinkling her petite nose, "But all the zombies suck. Fucking _Thriller _was a lie!"

Daryl chuckles along, doing his best impression of the _thriller_ walk while sitting down. Soon their mutual laugher grows until it becomes uncontrollable, both Daryl and Alice clutching their throbbing sides and their bountiful bout of hysterical laughter fills her cell to the brim – filtering out through the open door into the hall and traveling down the hall.

When their laughter gradually begins to subside, Alice's chuckles have mixed with high-pitched whines as her cheeks burn and she struggles to breath but it all hurts in the best of ways, so she really doesn't mind – not really, anyway.

Daryl has never been much of a joker but through the whole apocalypse he had forgot how to laugh – and more importantly he forgot how good it feels to lose yourself in the best of ways while in the company of the finer sex.

It feels normal.

It feels like relief.

It feels like the start of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

><p>Not intentionally trying to flirt but also not intending it to be completely innocent, Alice lays down and places her head on Daryl's lap while her boot-clad feet hang off the wide edge of the cots metal headboard. She twirls her right ankle around, spinning the un-tied boot around her foot in slow, sloppy circles. Daryl has his head rested all the way back against the wall, his eyes only open a sliver as he hangs suspended between sleep and alertness – not half-baked, or fully-baked, but baked twice like a fucking Biscotti. After taking a hit Alice hands the joint back to Daryl, having to tap his upper arm to gain his attention. With a dopey smile, he takes it then inhales, all the while wondering just how much more weed he can smoke before he completely passes out.<p>

Alice looks up at the ceiling without directly seeing it but clearly staring at something she sees in her mind, identical to the way she looked earlier while mentally sketching on the wall in the main hallway.

Daryl holds his hit, looking up at the ceiling while trying to see what she does – but he can't. All he sees is white. A flat, white surface with a few dimples and nothing more.

"What the hell are you lookin' at?" Daryl asks.

"This ceiling could be something great. Just look at it and tell me what you see." Alice holds her arms straight up while fanning out her fingers as she brushes imaginary paint with her palms on the blank canvas above her.

Daryl rolls his eyes to himself, thinking demeaning thoughts about women, more specifically those creative types who put twelve different types of potpourri in one room and assume men have all these deep, intense feelings that they need to talk about.

…Which they _don't._

When she catches his disinterest, Alice nudges him playfully in the ribs with her elbow, "Just humour me. Look at the ceiling like it isn't even there and think of something….something _beautiful…_something _peaceful_, instead."

Begrudgingly agreeing to at least try, Daryl scoots down and throws his head back. For the first couple of minutes he has nothing but heavy, impatient breaths as nothing but pure white glares back at him.

"Breathe like a normal person." Alice says gently.

Eyes fluttering closed with irritation, Daryl takes a few deep breaths and then reopens his eyes, breathing slowing and steady.

It does not happen instantly but it happens gradually, constantly growing one more degree stronger until it is as if his mind becomes a view-finder and clicks to the next slide. He sees it as if it were actually there and with great detail – the view from a distant memory he was not even sure he had.

He recalls the time he lay on the grass behind his house as a young boy, no older than six or seven. It was springtime and while all around his house there were nothing but evergreens, cypress and oak there were two white dogwoods just at lawns edge and they were in bloom. Daryl lay there on the grass, warming himself under the bright sun while looking up at a crisp blue sky, all the while those two flowering white dogwoods just at the bottom edge of his vision. He could smell their fragrant blossoms – he _can_ smell their fragrant blossoms, a faint phantom whiff in this very instant.

Daryl shakes his head, not willing to admit what he envisioned as Merle's gravelly voice condescendingly rings loud in his head

Alice groans, "I let you get away with stealing that bud, the least you can do is tell me."

Daryl sighs, stalling for just a moment while he stares down at her, taking in her as a sight - Alice's blonde hair lying in a halo pile around her head on his lap, her hazel eyes staring right at him with two pale blonde eyebrows raised high on her forehead, urging him on.

Finally, Daryl admits, "Dogwoods… Dogwoods with white flowers, like you're looking up at the sky and there they are."

Alice smiles, a genuine warm smile that erases Daryl's Merle-induced thoughts of un-manliness.

She nods once, "White dogwoods it is." She then shifts her eyes from him to the ceiling, her smile fading only slightly, "I like dogwoods." She says in quiet agreement.

Daryl continues looking at her with his blue eyes with his brows subtly furrowed together in fond bewilderment at her personality. Not so surprisingly, he finds himself approving of this person, this oddity who is neither like the women he knew before the apocalypse nor bearing any resemblance to the few he has met since. Daryl used to prefer women in short, high-energy bursts – one-night stands with wild passion but without any sort of lasting connection, but now that walkers roam the earth those sorts of interactions aren't exactly feasible.

Necrophiliacs are probably having a blast, though.

* * *

><p>Lou leads the convoy back to the prison, keeping a slow pace in the Humvee ahead of Dale's RV with her left arm out the window, her hand rolling up and down in gentle waves as she feels the breeze pass by. The prisons lurks on the horizon, tall buildings and twisted metal looming over the rolling hills washed with the warm wildflower hues of pink and purple. Even during daylight hours, Georgia State stands menacing as it haunts the serene scenery, seemingly ripped straight from the pages of a Poe story and then placed amongst a pristinely peaceful setting.<p>

Georgia State has always conjured feelings like Alcatraz or Eastern State Penitentiary and the thick acrid scent of burning death in the air does little to quell such haunting images.

Just beyond GSP's main gates, tall flames that turn black as they lick they sky stretch high, violently roaring. A quiver to the air clings around the tall pyre, much like a mirage in the desert, as intense heat ripples over the ground. Through the apocalypse, she has learned that there are two distinct smells of cooking skin – that of the freshly dead and that of the severely decomposed, those pesky walkers who are abandoning zombie classification and encroaching upon mummification territory, and this certain smell she smells is very clearly the latter. Decay and decomposition. Slightly woodsy, ashy – dusty and old.

Burning the corpses of the permanently-dead living dead has proven itself to be a less-traveled path that should be traveled. Where there are a lot of corpses lying around, it draws more. The distinct scent of decomposition and death which the walkers find so familiar entices them to roam in hoards, a pack of rabid animals united on a flesh quest. Much like walkers can track down loud noises, they follow the scent of their fellow dead. However, that is not the only benefit to burning the bodies. With less infected corpses lying around, it keeps away the animals and removes a food source for scavengers who eat the tainted flesh and then contribute to the spread of the disease.

But the stench. The God awful stench.

No matter how hard she fights the feeling tugging at memories stored deep in her hippocampus, the instantly recognizable smell thrusts her back through time, back to when Hell first started to erupt on Earth. Instead of grassy green hills with GSP on the horizon, she sees an ablaze Monroe Street before her; vividly reliving her midnight ride through the inferno that was once Tallahassee. Swallowing back the rush of memories, Louisiana bites on the middle knuckle of her curved index finger, smelling the gunpowder and tobacco on her hands instead.

She doesn't let her bother her, at least not in the visible way. Because, in the apocalypse, that is all you can do. There is no time for wallowing or PTSD; there is no time for mourning or fear; there is only time for accepting reality and remembering how to survive – or else this new world will quite literally eat you alive.

* * *

><p>Long chapter, I know, but I hope it was enjoyed and realistic with the whole DaleLou relationship thing.

**Please review! :)**


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Walking Dead, Drama, Humor